THE 
IDGE 


M.L.C.PICK.THALL 


THE  BRIDGE 


UNIT.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  AMr.KI.KX 


They  staggered  away  into  the  night 


THE  BRIDGE 

A  Story  of  the  Great  Lakes 

BY 
M.  L.  C.  PICKTHALL 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1922 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
THE  CENTUBY  Co. 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
THE  RIOGWAT  COMPANY 


PRINTED    IK    U.    8.    A. 


To  MY  COUSINS 
J.  M.  AND  R.  F.  M. 

this  book 

which  I  am  quite  sure  they  will  never  read 

is  affectionately 

dedicated 


2132135 


CONTENTS 

PAGl 

PART     I    THE  SAND .     .       1 


PART    II    THE   MIST .     93 

PART  III    THE  SNOW  .  .  193 


I 

THE  SAND 


THE  BRIDGE 


MACLEAR  was  done  with  it  all  at  last.  Not 
another  scrap  of  evidence  to  be  destroyed,  not 
another  fact  to  be  hidden,  not  another  damning  half- 
truth  left  to  be  told.  Brant  and  Raynham  were  the 
only  men  who  suspected  that  the  central  borings 
might  have  gone  deeper;  and  they  had  worked  for 
him  like  slaves.  Now  he  could  rest  with  a  quiet 
mind  till  the  inquiry  began.  The  firm  would  come 
out  of  it  well.  He  had  seen  to  that. 

For  ten  days  he  had  not  been  alone.  In  the  soul's 
craving  for  solitude  he  had  forgotten  the  body's 
craving  for  rest.  His  one  desire  was  to  reach  his 
office,  shut  the  door,  and  think  things  out  alone.  Per- 
haps if  he  could  be  alone  the  noise  in  his  head  would 
stop.  It  had  tormented  him  for  a  long  time.  It  was 
like  the  crash  of  falling  girders  or  breaking  steel. 

He  quickened  his  pace.  Whatever  had  broken,  it 
was  not  his  courage.  Whatever  had  failed,  it  was 
not  his  command  of  himself  or  of  other  men.  But  the 
end  was  coming.  He  knew  he  could  not  last  much 


4  THE  BRIDGE 

longer.     And  for  common  decency  he  must  be  alone 
when  he  broke. 

He  was  almost  running  when  he  turned  in  at  the 
entrance  of  his  office  building,  hounded  by  a  sudden 
fear  of  screaming  in  the  street.  It  was  time  he  re- 
laxed the  intolerable  strain.  He  could  have  beaten 
the  elevator  man  into  insensibility  for  that  one  glance 
that  might  have  been  curiosity — or  pity.  For,  after 
all,  the  firm  was  safe.  He  would  not  think  of  the 
rest,  nor  even  admit  it  to  himself. 

He  walked  steadily  enough  down  the  corridor,  and 
stopped  at  the  familiar  door.  He  read  the  curved 
black-and-gold  letters  of  his  name  upon  it,  two  or 
three  times,  before  he  went  in.  Everything  which 
had  belonged  to  his  daily  life  held  now  this  arrest- 
ing quality  of  strangeness. 

No  one  looked  up  as  he  crossed  the  outer  office. 
He  was  so  nearly  at  the  end  of  his  endurance  that  he 
was  grateful  they  spared  him  that.  He  had  his  hand 
on  the  door  of  his  inner  office  when  he  saw  that  on 
the  threshold  lay  a  single  white  violet. 

Something,  some  vivid  prescience  of  fear,  told  him 
that  Moira  was  here,  and  that  he  was  to  be  spared 
nothing.  Nothing. 

He  opened  that  door  also  and  went  in,  shutting  it 
behind  him. 

She  was  standing  by  the  windows.  She  did  not 
move  at  first,  and  for  a  moment  he  wondered  to  see 


THE  SAND  5 

her  all  in  black.  Then  he  remembered  that  of  course 
she  would  be  in  black,  for  Gordon  his  brother.  He 
put  his  hands  to  his  head.  The  crashing  was  grow- 
ing very  loud, — hammers  beating  him  down. 

The  room  was  very  silent.  It  stood  so  high  that 
the  noise  of  traffic  in  the  street  beneath  troubled  it  no 
more  than  the  sound  of  a  river  troubles  the  stillness 
of  a  forest.  But  there  was  no  silence  for  Maclear. 

He  knew  that  to  meet  Moira  he  must  be  strong  as 
he  had  not  been  before.  He  must  fail  in  nothing, 
yield  nothing,  admit  no  crack  in  his  armor  of  justi- 
fication. For,  after  all,  he  had  done  no  more  than  a 
hundred  other  men.  Why  should  he  pay  when  a 
hundred  others,  with  less  excuse,  went  free?  He  had 
been  betrayed  by  circumstance;  luck  had  been  bit- 
terly against  him.  That  was  all.  He  must  remem- 
ber it. 

In  a  moment  he  must  speak.  He  must  tell  her  that 
the  firm  would  be  sure  to  come  out  of  the  investiga- 
tion with  an  unblemished  reputation,  thanks  to  his 
own  energy.  There  had  been  nothing  else  in  the 
world  to  work  for,  these  last  days.  He  had  worked 
for  it.  Now  there  was  nothing  else  left  in  the  world 
to  say.  But  he  could  not  say  it. 

Thoughts  and  words  enough  were  in  his  mind,  a 
torrent,  without  cohesion.  He  bit  them  back.  They 
were  nothing,  after  all,  but  business  details,  techni- 
cal arguments  with  which,  hour  after  hour,  day  after 


6  THE  BRIDGE 

day,  he  had  confronted  and  refuted  his  own 
They  had  served  with  men.     They  would  not  serv 
with  this  woman. 

She  came  slowly  toward  him.  He  saw  nothm 
but  the  knot  of  white  flowers  she  wore,  the  one  relie 
in  the  unbroken  black  of  her  widowhood.  He  sa\ 
that  they  were  faded  and  dying,  each  petal  rimmei 
with  brown.  Seeing  his  gaze,  her  hand  went  up  an< 
touched  them  softly. 

In  a  moment  he  must  speak.  And  he  had  nothinj 
to  say. 

"Gordon  was  bringing  them  to  me."  Her  void 
was  level  and  quiet.  "They  found  the  little  box  ii 
his  hand,  and  thought  I  should  like  to  have  them 
It 's  as  new  as  all  that,"  she  said,  "as  new  as  all  that.' 

She  was  near  him.  It  was  as  if  the  silence  of  thi 
room  stood  there  with  her,  questioning  the  man  fo: 
whom  it  seemed  there  would  never  be  silence  an] 
more.  He  had  to  raise  his  eyes  at  last  from  thi 
flowers  to  his  sister-in-law's  face. 

And  in  an  instant  the  coverings  of  defense  wer< 
stripped  from  him.  They  withered  like  leaves  in  i 
fire,  leaving  him  with  an  intolerable  consciousness  o: 
nakedness.  There  was  no  defense. 

She  knew. 

After  a  long  time,  and  as  it  seemed  from  a  long 
distance,  he  heard  her  voice  again,  saying,  even  witl 
a  solemn  compassion,  "Poor  Cain!" 


THE  SAND  7 

He  could  not  move  his  eyes  from  her  face;  he 
could  not  stir.  He  felt  life  itself  withdrawing  from 
his  limbs,  centering  in  one  anguished  point  of  re- 
ceptivity. He  had  never  known  that  grief  came  with 
this  stillness,  or  that  it  was  like  this  to  be  judged. 

"You  have  suffered  very  much.  You  can't  have 
saved  more  than  a  few  thousands.  Was  it  worth  it?" 

He  tried  to  tell  her  that  that  was  not  the  point — 
not  the  point — that  he  was  clean  in  intention — that 
life,  fate,  chance,  had  deliberately  fouled  his  hands. 
The  thing  was  done  every  day.  But  he  could  not 
speak.  He  put  out  his  hands  as  if  to  shield  himself. 
But  there  was  no  shelter  anywhere. 

"There  were  three  others  besides  him.  But  I  can't 
think  of  any  one  but  Gordon.  Not  yet.  God 
would  n't  expect  it  yet.  And  then  there 's  me." 

"Moira!  You  know  I  'd  die  to  give  him  back  to 
you?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it,  Alan.  You  loved  him  in  your 
way.  You  were  always  very  good  to  us,  to  Gordon 
and  to  me.  I  suppose  that  seemed  so  far  apart  from 
your  work,  from — what  do  you  call  it?  Dodging  a 
specification?  Men,  I  suppose,  do  these  things — " 

Men  do  these  things.  Men,  it  seems,  fall  full- 
length  on  the  floor  and  catch  the  hem  of  a  black 
dress  and  hide  their  faces  there.  Well — she  looked 
down  on  him  without  any  change  in  the  calm  white 
face  above  the  dying  white  flowers;  only,  where 


8  THE  BRIDGE 

his  dark  hair  touched  her  shoe,  she  drew  her  foot 
away. 

"It 's  done  sometimes,  I  suppose,  and  nothing  hap- 
pens. I  don't  know  much  about  these  things.  But 
if  you  'd  needed  money,  Alan,  I  'd  have  lent  you 
some.  I  Ve  plenty  of  that.  And  so  gladly." 

"Moira — before  God — I  reckoned  everything— 
left  a  wide  margin  of  .safety — " 

She  listened  carefully  to  the  broken  voice.  She 
said,  "But  the  bridge  fell." 

Maclear  wondered  why  he  had  wanted  to  be  alone, 
to  think  things  out.  Because  no  thought  could  ever 
lighten  the  darkness  of  that  accomplished  fact. 
There  rose  in  him,  with  his  despair,  a  hatred  of  life, 
that  had  so  betrayed  him. 

"I  Ve  tried — I  Ve  prayed — to  be  just  to  you, 
Alan.  He  would  have  wished  it.  I  have  not  quite 
realized  things  yet.  I  have  felt  all  along  that  I  must 
defend  you,  fight  hard  for  you.  And  I  have.  Not 
a  doubt  shall  ever  shadow  you  through  me.  But 
it  is  going  to  be  very  hard.  There  's  something  in 
myself  I  can't  defend  you  from.  We  loved  you, 
Gordon  and  I.  We  were  so  proud  of  you.  He 
thought  the  world  of  you.  He  said  once,  'Alan  's 
hard,  but  he  's  true  as  steel.'  Sometimes,  when  I 
wake  in  the  morning,  I  can't  believe  it  yet;  I  can't 
get  things  right  in  my  mind.  Will  you  give  me  the 
truth  now,  yourself,  without  any  evasion  or  excuse? 


THE  SAND  9 

It  is  almost  the  last  thing  you  will  ever  do  for  me." 

"Yes." 

"Behind  everything,  isn't  it  the  fact  that  you 
did  n't  run  the  foundations  of  the  central  spans  deep 
enough?  I  don't  know  the  technicalities.  But  you 
saved  on  the  contract  that  way,  did  n't  you?  And  it 
seemed  all  right.  Only,  somehow,  the  sand  got  in, 
and  the  river  followed  the  sand.  And  the  train  went 
through.  Is  this  true?" 

"Quite  true." 

"You  do  not  ask  me  how  I  came  to  know." 

Said  the  man  at  her  feet:  "I  have  fought,  with 
every  bit  of  me,  body  and  soul,  to  keep  it  a  secret, — 
for  the  sake  of  the  firm.  I  thought  it  was  safe.  But 
perhaps — one  of  those  four — rose  from  the  dead  to 
teU  you?" 

She  was  weeping, — not,  he  knew,  for  the  dead; 
but  for  him,  for  the  living.  "It  was  that  poor  boy 
Oldershaw,  your  clerk,  who  hinted  something,  weeks 
ago.  He  was  boasting  of  you.  He  thought  you  so 
clever.  I  stopped  him.  I  never  told  Gordon." 

"Did  you  come  here  to  tell  me  this?" 

"Yes.  We  believed  in  your  honesty.  I  wanted  it 
from  you  once  more.  And  something  else.  Alan — 
Gordon's  brother,  that  he  loved  so  dearly! — I  want 
— some  day — to  be  able  to  forgive  you.  I  want  so 
terribly  to  be  able  to  forgive  you.  But  I  can't  do 
it  yet.  Not  yet.  You  are  the  nearest  thing  to  Gor- 


10  THE  BRIDGE 

don  that  is  left  in  the  world.  And  yet  there 's  that 
feeling  for  you,  here,  like  hate.  I  dread  that  it 
should  come  to  that  between  us.  But  if  I  don't  see 
you  for  a  long  while,  for  years,  perhaps  some  day, 
when  we  are  old  and  near  the  end  of  all  this  sorrow, 
I  '11  be  able  to  meet  you  again  in  the  way  he  would 
wish  me  to,  in  the  old  way  he  would  like." 

"Forgive  me?"9 

Again,  from  that  solemn  distance,  her  voice 
reached  him:  "Did  you  know  him  so  little  as  to  think 
he  would  n't  forgive?" 

For  a  little  time  thought  and  feeling  were  broken 
in  Maclear.  He  did  not  speak.  He  knew  she  was 
going;  that  he  might  never  see  her  again  in  this  life; 
and  of  all  women  in  the  world  she,  perhaps,  had 
been  the  most  purely  dear  to  him.  But  he  had  noth- 
ing to  say. 

She  had  not  yet  gone.  He  thought  she  stooped 
over  him,  thought  she  shrank  from  him ;  her  approach 
and  her  repulsion  would  both,  he  knew,  return  in 
memory  and  unbearable  pain.  But  now  he  felt  noth- 
ing, though  the  touch  of  her  divine  pity  was  on  him, 
and  the  whisper  of  it:  "Poor  Alan!  Poor  Cain!" 
Then  the  door  shut  softly.  He  was  alone,  as  he  had 
desired  to  be. 

He  stayed  there  on  the  floor  a  long  time. 

Once  or  twice  some  one  knocked  softly.  He  did 
not  hear  nor  answer.  It  was  late  when  at  last  he 


THE  SAND  11 

dragged  himself  to  his  feet.  It  seemed  very  dark. 
The  sun  was  behind  the  tall  buildings  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street,  and  their  shadow  darkened  his 
room.  Everything  was  silent.  The  staff  had  gone 
home.  After  hesitating  a  moment,  Maclear  found 
his  hat  and  went  out  too. 

He  went  down  the  stairs,  eight  flights,  but  he 
seemed  to  be  immediately  in  the  street.  Space  was 
opaque  to  him,  the  distance  lost  in  mist;  he  saw  men 
as  trees  walking.  The  crashing  in  his  brain  never 
stopped.  It  confused  and  benumbed  him,  seeming 
one  with  the  mist.  Only  the  passing  of  late  news- 
boys now  and  then  rent  these  shadows  with  intoler- 
able clearnesses  as  they  ran  by  shouting:  "Bersimis 
Bridge  Disaster.  Full  Details.  Who  Was  to 
Blame?  Inquiry  Promised."  He  walked  on. 

He  had  at  first  no  thought  of  where  he  was  going. 
He  was  looking  for  some  place  of  refuge  from  the 
memory  and  the  knowledge  that  went  with  him  every- 
where, that  clung  inseparably  to  his  soul  like  a  re- 
volting deformity  to  the  body.  Moira's  dreadful 
pity  had  branded  him  with  a  sin  he  yet  strove  to  deny; 
for  in  mind  and  will  he  had  been  innocent.  Innocent. 
He  felt  that  if  he  could  not  find  such  a  place  of  for- 
getfulness,  he  would  go  mad.  Until  he  found  it  he 
must  go  on  walking  till  his  flesh  wore  out  like  a  pair 
of  shoes. 

He  walked  on,  walked  on.     The  electric  street 


12  THE  BRIDGE 

lamps  added  their  stars  to  the  blue-purple  dusk.  He 
left  the  business  quarter  of  the  town,  and  wandered 
by  older  streets,  tree-grown;  the  leaves  covered  the 
wooden  sidewalks  with  a  diaper  of  intensest  still 
shadow.  All  these  ways  were  familiar  to  him.  He 
had  been  born  in  this  city,  had  grown  with  its  great 
growth.  It  was  like  walking  back  into  his  own  life. 
In  that  building  he  had  held  his  first  job;  in  that 
house  set  back  from  the  road,  where  two  maples 
heaved  mounds  of  motionless  darkness  against  the 
dim  stars,  they  had  lived  for  two  years,  that  he 
might  be  near  the  technical  school.  In  that  larger 
house  with  the  concrete  steps  his  father  had  died. 
Round  the  corner,  in  a  house  with  a  funny  tower, 
Gordon  had  had  diphtheria.  On  another  street  had 
lived  a  family  at  whose  home  he  and  Gordon  had 
spent  many  hours,  and  there  Gordon  had  met  Moira, 
and  Maclear  had  been  half  in  love  with  her  himself. 
And  here — 

Maclear  stopped.  This  was  the  shuttered  house 
where  she  and  Gordon  had  lived. 

He  turned  and  went  away.  He  wondered  why 
his  feet  had  led  him  here.  Everywhere  he  went  there 
was  some  thought  of  Gordon,  some  picture  of  Gordon, 
his  ugly  sweet  face  under  its  reddish  thatch  smil- 
ing from  the  night.  Maclear  began  to  talk  with 
him,  as,  in  the  back  of  his  brain,  he  had  talked  for 
days  and  days: 


THE  SAND  13 

"You  know. I  didn't  mean  it?" 

"I  know." 

"You  know  I  'd  have  died  to  save  you,  any  day, 
Gordy?" 

Maclear  waited  with  trembling  insistence  for  the 
answer.  The  imagined  face  seemed  to  look  upon 
him  pitifully,  too;  he  could  not  endure  it. 

"You  know,  wherever  you.  are,  I  'd  have  died  to 
save  you?" 

"I  know.     I  Jve  died  to  save  you." 

Was  it  "I've  died,"  or  "I'd  have  died"?  Question- 
ing the  shadow  of  his  own  thought,  Maclear  did  not 
know.  He  went  on. 

The  white  light  and  black  shadow  of  the  summer 
night  submerged  him  for  hours.  He  did  not  know 
where  he  went.  He  walked  in  a  mist,  from  which 
occasional  sudden  things,  minute  and  unimportant, 
emerged  to  arrest  him:  heat-dried  grass,  wet  with 
dew,  sending  up  a  sweet  breath;  the  odd  pattern  of 
an  iron  gate;  a  shrub  covered  with  pink  tubular 
flowers,  rigid  as  metal  in  the  glare  of  the  street  lamp. 
Sometimes  he  moved  with  such  effort  he  felt  his 
legs  heavy  as  stone.  Again,  he  felt  himself  so  thin 
and  light  he  wondered  when  people  stepped  aside 
to  avoid  him.  All  the  time  he  questioned,  all  the 
time  waited  for  the  answer. 

"You  know  I  did  n't  mean  it,  Gordon?  You  know 
I  'm  not  to  blame?" 


14  THE  BRIDGE 

The  visionary  face  of  his  brother  returned  its  com- 
passion. 

"You  know  I  'd  have  died  for  you,  Gordon?" 

"I  know."     The  night  itself  seemed  to  reply. 

Maclear  walked  on. 

He  found  himself  drinking  at  a  brightly  lighted 
bar.  Other  men  were  there,  looking  at  him  cu- 
riously. He  heard  one  genial  soul  say  to  another: 
"Yes,  thas  him!  Thas  Maclear!  Cleverest  man  in 
the  trade,  they  say,  an'  the  best-lookin'  feller,  an* 
the  luckiest.  And  his  luck  has  n't  gone  back  on  him 
yet!  You  see.  There  '11  be  nothing  proved  against 
the  firm — Poor  devil!" 

Maclear  paid  for  his  drinks  and  went  on. 

That  sickness  and  horrible  distaste  of  life,  the 
tangled,  betraying  thing  that  made  a  man  foul  him- 
self whether  he  would  or  no,  shook  him  from  head  to 
foot  like  a  physical  nausea.  He  walked  now  in 
streets  that  are  never  quite  empty,  the  oldest  streets 
of  that  city  down  by  the  waterfront.  He  walked  in 
the  gutters  among  the  hand-carts  and  oil-flares,  the 
cries  and  smells  and  clamors  of  a  foreign  popula- 
tion. He  shuddered  from  the  dark  bright  faces  that 
the  night  gave  him.  That  girl  with  the  scarf  over 
her  head  and  her  teeth  flashing;  that  slim  boy  pushing 
home  the  peanut-stand;  that  Madonna-faced  woman 
calling  her  children;  even  the  children  themselves, 
picking  up  half -burnt  moths  under  a  light, — he  saw 


THE  SAND  15 

them  all  only  as  so  many  potential  murders,  adul- 
teries, betrayals,  helpless  in  the  hold  of  life. 

He  went  on,  under  the  dusty  branches  of  old 
chestnut-trees  which  roofed  the  stir  and  strife  away 
from  the  stars.  He  went  on  through  dark  alleys  of 
old  warehouses.  The  smells  of  Italian  cooking 
yielded  to  the  scent  of  raw  hemlock  planks  and 
overripe  fruit.  He  came  to  the  high  gleam  and 
shadow  of  grain-elevators,  towering  in  the  night;  to 
houses  that  were  half  afloat,  boats  that  were  half  on 
land.  It  was  a  silent  place.  The  noises  of  the  for- 
eign quarter  had  fallen  away  behind.  Pausing  to 
listen  intenfly,  he  could  hear  a  slow  sigh;  it  was  the 
wash  of  lake  water  among  hundreds  of  piles.  The 
sound  was  soft  as  sleep.  It  was  all  about  him  as 
he  went  on  and  on  to  the  end  of  a  long  wharf,  where 
a  single  lantern  confronted  an  infinity  of  shadows 
and  of  stars. 

Maclear  knew  this  place,  also. 

There  was  a  shed  on  the  end  of  the  wharf.  Mac- 
lear leaned  against  it.  He  spread  his  arms  out  to 
steady  himself  from  the  recurrent  shock  and  crash  of 
the  falling  steel  which  he  had  never  for  a  moment 
ceased  to  hear.  He  stood  very  still.  The  lantern 
swung  softly  in  a  cloud  of  flower-winged  moths.  Its 
light  showed  him  tall  and  black  upon  the  silvery 
weathered  wall,  as  if  some  one  had  marked  the  shed 
with  a  great  dark  cross. 


16  THE  BRIDGE 

He  leaned  farther  out.  He  could  hear  the  warm 
air  fingering  in  the  funnel  stays  of  a  moored  tug. 
He  could  not  fairly  see  the  surface  of  the  water;  only 
the  lantern's  golden  reflection  flickering  in  invisi- 
bility. 

He  knew  now  why  he  had  come  here. 

Hollow  beyond  hollow  of  forgetfulness,  the  stars 
wavered  beneath  him.  They  sank  perpetually  in 
night,  but  never  vanished  there.  This  was  the  place 
where  memory  ceased. 

He  thought,  as  he  plunged,  that  the  stars  rushed  up 
to  meet  him.  Then  his  body  struck  the  water,  and 
their  images  went  out  in  a  hundred  hastening  ripple- 
rings. 

He  sank  deep.  For  a  moment  the  cool  shock 
quickened  him.  He  was  a  good  swimmer,  and  he 
fought  grimly  enough,  there  in  the  shadow,  against 
the  body's  instinctive  response.  He  rose,  and  there 
reeled  upon  his  vision  the  black  overhang  of  the 
wharf,  the  soaring  elevators  behind  it,  the  light  and 
shadow  of  the  city  upon  a  heaven  as  tender  as  a 
dark  pearl.  He  shut  his  eyes  to  it  and  sank  again. 

He  had  no  need  to  fight  any  more.  His  strength 
went,  and  it  was  a  half-dead  thing  the  mild  water 
drew  down.  The  noise  in  his  head  turned  to  a  blaze 
of  bursting  fires,  and  that  to  a  silence  almost  com- 
plete. When  he  rose  the  third  time,  they  were  but 
dying  eyes  he  turned  on  the  night. 


THE  SAND  17 

Then  he  cried  out.  He  would  have  struggled,  but 
the  warm  thick  water  lay  on  him  like  a  weight.  His 
head  went  back.  He  was  all  but  gone.  He  reached 
out  dying  hands  to  life.  He  felt  himself  sinking 
again.  He  had  forgotten  how  to  swim,  he  could  not 
save  himself.  A  black  tide,  which  he  saw  almost 
with  his  bodily  eyes,  was  rushing  down  on  him,  wash- 
ing out  everything. 

Everything  but  the  bridge. 

He  saw  the  bridge  more  clearly  than  he  had  ever 
seen  it, — the  bridge,  and  all  connected  with  it,  com- 
pressed in  space  and  time  to  one  instantaneous  appre- 
hension. It  spanned  that  on-coming  darkness;  little 
brilliant  lines  and  diagrams  enclosed  it,  economical 
calculations  printed  indelibly  on  the  universe.  It 
was  at  the  same  time  gigantic  and  minute,  swift  and 
motionless,  dazzling  and  obscure.  He  had  no  longer 
any  assurance  of  escape.  He  could  not  lose  it. 
Even  beyond  life,  perhaps,  he  would  not  forget. 

The  wharf  was  the  last  fringe  of  life,  the  fence 
of  the  unfathomable.  He  looked,  with  vain  and 
awful  appeal.  He  saw  a  black  body  poised  upon 
the  edge  of  things,  rushing  down  upon  him  in  a  clean 
dive.  Then  again  the  star-images  were  wrecked  and 
broken,  and  the  ripples  sped  along  the  hollow  under 
side  of  the  wharf. 

He  knew  nothing  else  until  he  knew  life  return- 
ing, with  sufficient  wrenches  and  agonies.  He  was 


18  THE  BRIDGE 

glad  of  life.  He  was  lying  on  the  wharf,  his  head 
on  a  man's  knees.  He  put  out  a  hand,  touching  the 
sun-splintered  wood  on  which  he  lay.  It  came  to 
him  that  it  was  wonderful  to  be  capable  of  such  an 
action.  Hands  were  busy  about  him,  he  heard  hard 
breathing  and  smelt  dirty  wet  cloth.  A  voice  said, 
"You  're  better  now?" 

"Yes." 

"If  I  let  you  up,  you  won't  try  any  of  them  games 
again?" 

"No." 

He  was  released  by  the  hands  that  partly  sup- 
ported, partly  imprisoned  him.  But  he  was  too  weak 
to  stand  alone.  In  that  hour  he  was  stripped  of 
everything,  even  of  the  desire  for  death.  He  was 
helpless  as  one  of  the  half-burnt  moths  he  had 
watched  the  Italian  children  pick  up  under  the  lamp. 
He  turned  on  his  face  and  broke  into  racking  sobs. 

He  was  lower  than  shame.  When  he  had  finished 
his  weeping  he  sat  up  and  swept  the  tears  from  his 
eyes.  The  other  man's  arm  was  about  him,  support- 
ing him  even  with  a  suggestion  of  tenderness.  Mac- 
lear  looked  into  a  face  grayed  with  strain,  gleaming 
with  wet  so  that  it  shone  like  snake  skin;  common  and 
pinched,  it  was  yet  anxiously  human.  He  asked, 
"How  did  you  get  me  out?" 

"I  'd  a  job.  You  're  a  bigger  man  than  me. 
But  times  like  this  a  feller 's  stronger  than  ordinary. 


THE  SAND  19 

And  there  was  a  ladder  at  the  side  there,  by  the 
slip." 

"How  did  you  happen  to  see  me?" 

"I  thought  you  was  drunk,"  said  the  man,  frankly. 
"I  was  follerin'  you — to  see  what  was  in  your  pockets 
when  you  fell!  But  I  ain't  touched  a  thing.  You 
k'n  feel  and  see.  Say,  why  did  you  do  it?" 

"There  was  (something — something  I  wanted  to 
forget." 

"Well — you  ain't  goin'  to  try  it  again  that  way?" 

"No.  It's  not  sure  enough.  Not  sure — here." 
Maclear  held  out  a  roll  of  sodden  bills.  "Take 
them,"  he  said;  "they'll  dry." 

The  man  hesitated.  Then  Maclear  saw  the  blood 
stain  his  face.  "Not  now,"  he  answered  awkwardly. 
"It — don't  seem  right." 

Maclear  dragged  himself  to  his  feet  and  stood 
swaying.  Answering  his  rescuer's  look,  he  said: 
"You  need  not  worry  about  me  any  more.  I  won't 
try  that  way  again.  It's  not  certain,  after  all.  I 
know  something  better." 

He  started  to  walk  back  the  length  of  the  wharf. 
The  planks  under  his  feet  swung  in  monstrous  circles 
of  light  and  shade,  as  the  moths  flew  round  the  lan- 
tern. He  staggered.  The  man  watching  him  hesi- 
tated, then  swore  and  followed,  thrusting  an  arm 
roughly  within  his  own.  "Here,"  he  said,  "you  ain't 
fit  to  go  alone,  wherever  it  is." 


20  THE  BRIDGE 

They  stumbled  down  the  wharf,  Maclear  and  the 
thief,  a  black  shadow  inextricably  locked.  They 
crossed  railway  lines  gleaming  in  the  dew,  and  crept 
the  length  of  a  string  of  freight-cars  on  a  siding. 
Another  wharf  opened  before  them  between  dim 
water  lanes.  Freight-sheds  were  on  one  hand,  ships 
lying  along  on  the  other.  An  arched  sign  bore  the 
words,  "MACLEAR  &  Co." 

The  big  steel  freighters  from  the  upper  lakes  were 
in, — Misstassini,  Mirimichi,  Meductic,  sea-going 
ships  all.  Maclear  passed  them.  He  was  not 
thinking  of  them.  He  knew  at  last  where  he  would 
go,  and  what  he  would  find. 

Then  again  the  way  opened.  And  there  before 
them  at  the  end  of  things  was  lying  a  silver  ship. 

She  lay  in  the  full  glare  of  an  arc-light  swinging 
from  a  high  pole.  The  light  painted  her  silver  to 
her  mastheads,  beautiful  on  the  face  of  the  night,  an 
old  lake  schooner  loading  stone. 

"The  Marline  Messier"  said  Maclear.  "She  was 
to  have  been  broken  up  soon." 

He  could  not  have  explained  why  he  had  recol- 
lected the  old  ship,  nor  what  affinity  had  drawn  him 
to  her;  perhaps  it  lay  in  that  one  word  "broken." 

They  wiere  alongside,  looking  down  on  a  deck 
silvered  with  the  dust  of  stone.  Maclear  said, 
"Shout."  After  a  moment  the  man  beside  him 
hailed  doubtfully.  He  hailed  again.  Some  one 


THE  SAND  21 

came  from  shadow  into  the  white  light,  and  looked  up 
at  them. 

"Garroch,"  said  Maclear. 

"Sir!— Mr.  Maclear!" 

Amazement  and  something  of  horror  sharpened 
the  old  voice.  Maclear  said  quickly — he  felt  he 
must  be  quick — "Who  's  on  board  with  you?" 

"Levett,  and  my  nephew  from  the  Townships." 

"Enough  to  raise  sail.  Is  there  any  wind  out- 
side?" 

"Some,  I  doubt,  but — " 

"Rouse  them  up.  You  could  tow  out  to  it  in  the 
dinghy.  Never  mind  the  cargo.  I — can't  wait, 
Garroch.  I  must  go — must  go — " 

He  put  his  hands  to  his  head.  "I  must  go,"  he 
said,  "anywhere  where  I  sha'n't  hear  the  bridge, 
Garroch!  Anywhere  where  I  can  forget!" 

The  old  man  had  his  foot  on  the  bulwark  and 
cleared  the  jump  to  the  wharf  like  a  boy.  But  it 
was  in  the  other  man's  arms  that  Maclear  lay,  broken 
at  last,  like  his  bridge. 


ir 


Very  slowly,  through  a  still  evening,  the  Marline 
Messier  was  standing  in  to  shore. 

They  had  left  behind  them  the  lake  highways. 
They  had  moved  for  days  in  a  ring  of  solitude  whose 


22  THE  BRIDGE 

blue  was  seldom  broken  by  the  stain  of  smoke  or  the 
gleam  of  a  sail.  Throughout  the  day  the  land  they 
neared  had  grown  almost  imperceptibly  upon  their 
horizon.  Long  and  low,  it  had  seemed  now  of  the 
substance  of  cloud  or  water,  now  only  of  shadow  or 
light. 

The  wind  which  so  softly  drifted  the  old  schooner 
onward  was  not  strong  enough  to  ruffle  the  surface 
of  the  water.  As  the  sun  sank,  the  great  lake  turned 
luminous,  lost  all  bounds,  became  another  roseate 
heaven.  Between  these  clarities  the  ship  hung,  black 
as  grief,  moving  to  a  shore  drawn  in  sudden  black 
along  the  lessening  gold. 

Then  the  sun  dipped.  Again  the  schooner  was 
gray  as  a  gull  in  the  twilight  of  the  North.  The  is- 
land ahead  was  again  a  shadow.  As  they  neared  the 
land  that  shadow  breathed  on  them  a  full  sweet  scent 
of  flowers. 

When  they  came  to  anchor,  the  twilight  still  held. 
Maclear  said,  "Put  me  ashore  here." 

They  hauled  in  the  dinghy  towing  astern.  Mac- 
lear lowered  himself  into  it.  Garroch  followed 
him  and  took  the  oars.  They  pulled  toward  the 
land. 

Presently,  with  no  more  than  a  sigh,  the  boat 
took  the  beach.  Maclear  stepped  from  it  and 
walked  slowly  along  the  sand.  He  saw  nothing  else. 
Under  his  feet,  the  dust  of  silence,  deadening  their 


THE  SAND  23 

fall,  was  nothing  but  sand;  white  sand,  but  stained 
here  and  there,  where  the  iron  lay,  as  if  with  blood. 
He  stooped  and  touched  it.  The  surface  was  cold, 
but  beneath  it  lingered  warmth.  He  sifted  it  aim- 
lessly in  his  hands,  lifting  and  letting  fall  a  thousand 
grains,  minute  chips  of  quartz,  rounded  dust  of  red 
and  yellow  sandstone,  powdered  ores,  sparkles  of 
granite  old  as  the  world. 

He  had  no  thought  at  all  except  that  it  was  pleas- 
ant to  handle  the  soft,  innumerable  monotony.  He 
wandered  on. 

Inland  were  low  dunes  crested  with  grass,  ground 
willows,  and  thin  poplars.  Between  him  and  the 
dunes  stretched  a  ribbon  of  marsh,  mooned  all  along 
with  the  moth-blurred  disks  of  the  evening  primroses. 
It  was  from  here  the  sweetness  had  come. 

He  knew  if  he  walked  the  island's  length  he 
would  probably  find  nothing  but  more  sand,  willows, 
poplars,  the  flower  and  fragrance  of  the  little 
marshes.  No  more  silent  place  could  have  been 
imagined,  nor  one  more  remote. 

He  went  slowly  back  to  Garroch,  and  said:  "This 
is  the  place.  I  '11  stay  here.  You  know  what  to 
do." 

Garroch  put  back  to  the  schooner,  leaving  Maclear 
on  the  beach. 

Far  into  the  night  the  twilight  held.  When  the 
dinghy  returned,  loaded  with  supplies  and  camping- 


24  THE  BRIDGE 

stuff  which  Maclear  had  bought  at  a  port  on  the 
way  up  the  lakes,  the  men  found  him  asleep,  with 
his  cheek  to  the  sand.  They  were  used  to  it;  he  had 
slept  a  great  deal,  in  a  sick  way,  aboard  the  schooner. 
Even  when  they  raised  a  small  tent,  and  spread 
blankets,  and  lifted  and  laid  him  there,  he  did  not 
wake. 

These  things  done,  they  returned  on  board. 

They  had  their  orders.  Garroch  carried  a  letter  to 
Raynham,  giving  him  full  authority  in  the  business, 
telling  him  enough.  Maclear  wanted  no  letters  for- 
warded. He  wished  to  be  consulted  in  nothing. 
He  wanted  to  lapse  out  of  life  for  a  little  while. 
Raynham  would  understand.  It  would  be  conven- 
ient to  tell  other  acquaintances  that  he  was  threatened 
with  a  nervous  breakdown,  and  had  gone  camping. 
That  would  do.  In  two  months  the  Marline  Messier 
would  return  for  him. 

Toward  midnight  a  breeze  sprang  up.  They 
worked  the  schooner  out.  Her  ancient  dove-gray 
topsails,  dwindling  under  the  stars,  were  Maclear's 
last  link  with  former  things.  He  had  broken  with  all 
that  had  been  his  life. 

He  slept  on.  The  island  was  voiceless  all  night, 
and  his  sleep  held  neither  voice  nor  dream. 

Silent  was  the  coming  of  the  dawn. 

When  Maclear  woke,  his  solitude  was  as  complete 
as  if  he  had  been  reborn  into  an  empty  world. 


THE  SAND  25 


m 


Morning  after  morning  rose  supremely  from  the 
hazed  sea-line,  drowned  the  world  in  golden  heats, 
and  passed  in  winged  red  cirrus,  or  towering  cumu- 
lus marching  the  long  horizons.  Never  had  there 
been  such  peace,  or  such  fair  weather.  The  lake- 
bosom  breathed,  no  more.  It  was  the  beginning  of  a 
world,  when  the  Word  was  only,  Let  there  be  light; 
and  there  was  light,  and  a  great  stillness. 

Maclear  shared  in  this  stillness. 

In  all  his  life  he  had  experienced  neither  leisure 
nor  physical  loneliness.  Now  these  two  things  laid 
their  hands  on  him;  and  he  thought  he  would  be 
healed. 

He  felt  that  his  only  help  was  in  himself,  in  his 
own  power  of  forgetfulness,  or,  rather,  in  his  ability 
to  detach  himself  from  the  past.  He  compared  him- 
self to  a  man  maimed  in  some  accident,  yet  denying 
his  disability,  going  on  in  spile  of  it,  the  stronger 
for  seeing  clearly  the  bitter  possibilities  of  life.  He 
could  not  entirely  break  down  that  bridge  of  memory 
that  linked  him  to  previous  things;  but  he  could  re- 
fuse to  travel  by  it.  Maclear's  mind  was  strangely 
calm,  lonely,  clean-swept.  Deliberately  he  drew 
into  it  a  thousand  tiny  details;  building  them  con- 
sciously into  a  shelter;  loving  more  and  more  to 


26  THE  BRIDGE 

turn  and  consider  them,  as  he  sifted  the  sand  in  his 
hands. 

He  built  himself  a  fireplace;  and  it  pleased  him  to 
choose  each  stone  for  it  with  curious  care,  to  trace 
the  veins  of  blackish  sparkling  ore,  the  minute  fos- 
sils, the  embedded  crystals  of  the  rock.  Those  he 
did  not  like  he  threw  away. 

The  muskrat  trails  at  the  edge  of  the  marsh  would 
hold  him  for  hours,  puzzling  out  their  manifold  inter- 
sections. A  little  wader  with  lemon-yellow  legs, 
picking  water-snails  from  the  sunken  reed  roots,  gave 
him  food  for  infinite  reflection.  A  turtle  with  a  wet 
wine-red  shell,  creeping  from  a  pond  to  lay  her  eggs 
in  a  channel  of  the  warm  mud,  he  watched  a  whole 
evening.  These  small  lovelinesses  were  new  to  him. 
He  took  them,  shaped  them  to  his  need,  as  sometimes 
he  shaped  the  wet  sand  to  idle  stars  or  walls  or 
flowers. 

As  he  trained  his  mind,  so  he  trained  his  body. 
He  swam,  walked,  lay  in  the  sun,  all  with  the 
thought  of  so  increasing  his  power  of  resistance  to 
the  past.  As  he  was  proud  of  his  ability  to  dwell  on 
the  little  existences  of  the  marsh  and  the  lake,  so 
he  was  proud  of  every  slightest  physical  sensation  of 
rest  or  enjoyment,  and  overlooked  no  one  of  them. 
The  pleasure  of  the  cold  sand  under  his  bare  feet 
as  he  stepped  from  his  tent  in  the  morning;  the  thrill 
when  his  body  passed  from  the  warm  surface  water 


THE  SAND  27 

to  the  depth  that  never  loses  its  icy  cold;  his  delight 
in  the  scent  of  the  wax-white  spiral  orchises  then  be- 
ginning to  blossom  along  the  marshes, — all  these  he 
counted  and  credited  to  himself,  proofs  of  his  own 
strength. 

Yet  it  was  the  sand  that  most  charmed  his  busy 
idleness. 

He  never  tired  of  it.  It  took  on  an  immaterial 
meaning  for  him  as  he  dwelt  on  its  material  com- 
plexity. It  was  like  life.  It  resembled  the  countless 
small  deeds  and  occurrences  that  go  to  make  up  life; 
some  clear  as  diamond,  some  dark  as  blood,  yet  all 
alike  building  one  huge  indifferent  fabric.  Of  it- 
self the  sand  had  no  volition.  Outer  forces  alone 
moved  it,  the  waves  changed  it,  the  wind  blew  it 
where  it  listed.  It  was  so  with  all  that  men  did ;  they 
had  no  power  of  themselves  to  alter  their  circum- 
stances; they  were  governed  irresistibly,  as  the  sand 
was  governed  by  the  wind.  They  were  blameless. 
Good  and  evil  in  life  were  no  more  than  the  colors 
of  the  eternal  sand. 

As  his  bodily  strength  was  renewed,  Maclear  felt 
a  supreme  inner  mastery  of  himself.  He  was  with- 
out fear,  without  haste.  He  counted  time  only  by 
the  slow  advances,  the  slow  recessions,  of  nature. 
He  filled  his  days  in  this  way.  His  nights  were  ab- 
solute blanks  of  quiet  and  dreamless  sleep.  After 
he  had  been  on  the  island  for  two  weeks,  if  any 


28  THE  BRIDGE 

one  had  asked  him,  he  would  have  said  that .  he 
had  forgotten  about  the  bridge,  in  the  sense  in  which 
he  intended  to  forget. 

He  thought  that  his  weakness,  back  there  in  the 
city,  had  been  bodily.  Now,  hardening  from  head 
to  heel,  he  dreaded  himself  no  more. 

Only  once  was  his  security  shaken;  and  by  a  very 
little  thing. 

He  was  diving  from  his  favorite  rock  ledge  into 
deep  water.  The  lake  was  immeasurably  calm.  He 
passed  down,  down  without  effort,  seeing  the  world 
change  from  gold  to  blue,  from  blue  to  green.  His 
fingers  touched  the  sand  at  the  bottom,  stirred  it  into 
a  smoke;  closed  on  something  hard.  A  school  of 
little  fish  flickered  past.  He  turned  and  flashed  up- 
ward, shot  with  a  deep  breath  and  a  glitter  of  brief 
foam  into  the  sun.  Climbing  on  the  rocks  again,  he 
looked  at  the  hard  thing  he  had  taken  from  the  sand. 

It  was  a  pen-knife,  massed  with  rust. 

Suddenly,  as  he  looked  at  it,  an  extraordinary  ter- 
ror and  dismay  shook  him.  It  was  as  if  the  old 
knife  possessed  a  destroying  atmosphere,  or  as  if  it 
were  poisoned.  Sheer  physical  dread  darkened  the 
sun  for  him,  his  throat  closed,  he  gasped  for  breath. 
The  terror  endured  five  seconds,  perhaps;  passed, 
leaving  him  shaking  on  the  hot  rocks,  wet  with  more 
than  water. 

Memory  supplied  the  trivial  link,  but  could  not 


THE  SAND  29 

explain  it.  Maclear  had  owned  such  a  knife,  nearly 
thirty  years  before;  and  Gordon  had  wanted  it. 
They  had  quarreled  over  it  tremendously,  as  they 
did  about  once  in  a  twelvemonth;  and  in  a  sudden 
red-hot  rage  Maclear  had  stabbed  Gordon  in  the  hand 
with  it.  He  had  forgotten  the  incident  for  years, 
though  at  the  time  he  had  been  hard  hit  by  the  sight 
of  the  red  trickle  over  Gordon's  dirty  young  hand. 
Now,  the  sickness  and  passion  of  that  long-past  hap- 
pening of  his  childhood  was  suddenly  renewed  for 
him  with  the  force  of  his  manhood.  It  was  as  if  he 
had  just  struck  his  brother  with  the  rusty  knife  across 
his  palm.  That  remembered  blood  was  fresh. 
Trembling,  Maclear  flung  the  knife  into  deep  water. 
That  night,  for  the  first  time,  he  woke,  the  old  cry 
on  his  lips,  in  his  heart:  "You  know  I  'd  have  died 
for  you,  Gordon?" 

"I  know." 

"Not  my  fault,  not  my  fault.  My  hands  are  clean. 
Brother,  brother,  I  'd  die  to  bring  you  back,  now!" 

Silence,  and  the  whisper  of  the  lake  along  the  dark 
beaches,  and  the  large  stars  standing  low  toward  the 
austere  dawn.  Maclear  turned  and  slept,  but  there 
were  tears  on  his  face. 

The  morning  came,  calm  and  beautiful.  He  was 
strong.  The  shadow  passed,  and  he  returned  to  his 
former  security. 

Later,  a  small  fishing-tug  with  three  men  aboard 


30  THE  BRIDGE 

put  in  to  the  island.  The  men  landed,  and  Maclear 
went  and  spoke  to  them.  They  were  pleasant  fel- 
lows. They  said  they  only  wanted  to  stretch  their 
legs  ashore.  They  looked  at  Maclear  admiringly, — 
at  his  slender,  steel-like  strength,  at  his  tanned  clean- 
shaven face,  at  his  crisped  dark  hair  and  hard  blue 
eyes.  They  said:  "You  look  as  if  you  were  havin' 
a  pretty  good  time  here  by  yourself." 

Maclear  smiled  and  said,  "Yes." 

"There 's  times,"  said  one,  genially,  "when  a 
feller  's  got  to  be  by  himself." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

Maclear  was  startled  by  the  quick  low  voice  that 
had  come  from  his  own  lips.  The  genial  man  was 
startled,  too.  He  said  vaguely:  "Why,  nothin', — 
just  that!"  and  looked  rather  timidly  at  Maclear, 
who,  for  an  incredible  instant,  had  reminded  him  of 
a  gun  ready  to  go  off.  Then  some  one  else  spoke. 
The  instant  was  gone. 

They  walked  about  the  beach,  and  Maclear  showed 
them  the  sands,  how  far  they  stretched,  how  level, 
how  hard  they  were.  He  liked  his  visitors,  but  was 
a  little  contemptuous  of  them.  In  his  mental  detach- 
ment, he  considered  them  one  by  one, — the  man  with 
the  long  chin,  the  genial  fat  one  with  the  black  mus- 
tache, and  the  thin  one  in  waders.  He  thought:  "If 
what  has  happened  to  me  had  happened  to  one  of 
them,  he  would  n't  have  got  over  it  so  easily." 


THE  SAND  31 

Going,  they  asked  him,  "Anything  we  can  do  for 
you?" 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Maclear;  "I  have  everything  I 
want." 

He  was  glad  when  they  went,  yet  he  spent  a  long 
time  going  over  every  incident  of  their  visit.  Sup- 
pose he  had  told  them  who  he  was;  suppose  he  had 
said :  "I  'm  Maclear,  who  was  responsible  for  the 
Bersimis  bridge," — how  would  they  have  looked  at 
him  then?  He  considered  these  imaginary  looks, 
in  character  with  the  long  chin,  the  black  mustache, 
and  the  waders.  It  was  the  gentle-faced  man  in 
waders  that  troubled  him  most. 

Day  after  day  the  motionless  bright  weather  held, 
and  his  clear  days  and  blank  nights  with  it. 

Then  bands  of  cirrus  rose  in  the  sky.  The  water 
grew  milky  under  them,  iridescent  as  if  oil  had  been 
spilled.  At  long  intervals  an  undulation  heaved  the 
surface,  and  broke  on  the  beaches  with  a  sullen,  un- 
expected thunder.  It  left  a  rope  of  green  weed, 
gray  shells,  little  fish,  and  drowned  butterflies,  mile 
after  mile,  along  those  tideless  shores.  Drying,  this 
drift  smelt  of  desolation. 

At  night,  for  the  first  time,  Maclear  could  see  no 
stars.  He  slept  restlessly.  Waking  in  a  dull  gray 
dawn,  he  knew  for  the  first  time  that  he  had  dreamed. 

He  was  uneasy.  The  trouble  impending  on  the 
lake  seemed  reflected  in  his  own  spirit.  An  obscu- 


32  THE  BRIDGE 

rity  was  drawn  between  him  and  nature.  He  saw  the 
mewing  gulls,  the  dark  coween  arrowing  down  the 
lake,  the  bronze  fish-hawk  sailing  inshore,  as  though 
through  mist.  He  knew  this  obscurity  was  in  the 
air;  yet  felt  it  on  the  hard  clarity  of  his  own  mind. 

While  he  swam,  dressed,  and  cooked  his  breakfast 
he  was  vexed  by  a  persistent  wonder  as  to  what  he 
had  dreamed. 

Later,  he  wandered  down  the  beach,  aimlessly  fol- 
lowing the  rope  of  drift.  He  was  a  little  surprised  to 
see  a  double  line  of  his  own  footprints  on  the  other 
side  of  the  rope,  since  he  could  not  remember  walk- 
ing here  before.  The  weed  and  dead  things  breathed 
on  him  the  barren  smell  of  those  great  deeps  of  un- 
salted  sea.  This,  and  the  footprints,  and  the  coming 
storm,  and  the  dream  he  could  not  recall  were  all 
one  in  his  mind. 

Something  was  leaking  and  stirring  feebly  be- 
neath his  strength,  as  the  sand  had  leaked  and  trick- 
led beneath  the  spans  of  the  Bersimis. 

Then,  in  a  curve  of  the  drifted  rubbish,  he  stopped 
suddenly. 

The  drift  here  framed  in  its  curve  a  slightly  in- 
clined plane  of  the  purest  and  most  stainless  sand. 
To  this  plane  the  footprints  on  the  other  side  of  the 
rope  led;  here  they  ceased.  And  on  this  sand  was 
drawn,  minutely  to  scale,  a  large  plan  of  the  Bersi- 
mis bridge. 


THE  SAND  33 

The  memory  of  the  draftsman  had  not  failed  him, 
nor  had  his  hand  for  an  instant  faltered. 

Sand,  lake,  and  sky  danced  a  moment  in  blots 
and  rings  of  crimson,  and  went  out.  Maclear  saw 
nothing  but  his  bridge. 

He  stood  looking  at  it. 

Presently  he  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  drew 
out  a  flattened  carpenter's  pencil  which  he  had  hap- 
pened to  have  with  him;  touching  the  lead  unsteadily, 
he  found  that  it  gritted  with  sand. 

This  was  what  he  had  used,  then,  when  memory 
drove  him  out,  even  in  his  sleep,  to  draw  his  bridge 
on  the  hard  sand  of  the  island.  He  wondered  how 
many  times  he  had  done  it  before ;  what  other  beaches 
or  dune  slopes  or  hidden  places  there  were  which 
might  at  any  time  remorselessly  confront  him  with 
the  handiwork  of  his  sleep. 

He  moved  to  stamp  the  thing  out;  to  blot  it  away. 
But  there  was  no  need.  As  he  watched,  a  smoke 
drove  across  it;  it  faded  in  a  moment.  It  was  the 
sand  drifting  before  a  sudden  wind. 

Maclear  turned  and  walked  inland,  where  the  pop- 
lar thickets  shook  a  dark-and-silver  dazzle  of  leaves, 
and  the  ridges  of  the  dunes  trailed  into  mist.  He 
had  lost  all  thought.  He  forgot  his  camp.  He  had 
no  sense  nor  aim  of  direction.  He  was  afraid,  for 
even  in  himself  there  was  no  security. 

After  the  first,  the  wind  did  not  come  in  gusts.     It 


34  THE  BRIDGE 

came  like  a  wall,  an  immense  advance  out  of  space. 
The  storm  was  of  wind  only.  It  lifted  the  sand  as 
if  with  hands.  The  air  was  full  of  driving  sand, — 
a  level,  scorching,  impalpable  fog.  It  was  as  though 
the  whole  island  would  be  spun  and  carded  away, 
scattered  on  the  wind,  strewn  on  the  lake. 

Like  the  sand,  Maclear  went  on,  driven  before  that 
wind. 

Soon  he  heard  a  rising  thunder  added  to  the  other 
voices.  It  was  the  thunder  and  incessant  crash  of 
the  great  lake,  hurled  in  breaker  upon  breaker  along 
the  beaches  behind  him.  He  thought  it  was  the  crash 
and  thunder  of  a  falling  bridge. 

The  earth  itself  seemed  to  rise  against  him,  to 
cast  him  out  in  this  storm  of  smallest  particles  that 
clogged  his  feet,  choked  his  breath,  scourged, 
blinded,  and  perpetually  escaped  him.  The  ground 
was  elusive  as  water.  The  lashing  willow  scrub  on 
the  flanks  of  the  dunes  came  away  in  the  hand,  the 
poplars  slipped  from  the  hold,  the  world  was  a 
fluid,  pouring  away  into  space.  There  was  no  firm 
standing  anywhere. 

The  island  was  riddled  with  channels  of  angry 
foam.  Spume  whitened  the  still  lagoons,  the  inlets 
frothed  among  the  marsh  meadows  and  the  fringed 
gentian  beds.  Maclear  passed  from  land  to  water, 
from  water  to  land,  without  knowing.  But  most  ter- 
rible of  all  was  the  running  of  the  sand. 


THE  SAND  35 

All  day  he  was  a  fugitive  before  it. 

With  the  evening,  light  broke  for  a  moment 
through  the  dry  racing  clouds;  light  of  colorless  bril- 
liance, fierce  as  steel.  The  wind  held  the  grass  rigid 
as  iron.  The  blowing  dunes  showed  like  clouds, 
transparent  in  the  wild  gleam.  Maclear  came  to 
another  beach;  he  had  crossed  the  island. 

On  this  beach  a  woman  stood,  blown  about  with 
foam,  gazing  toward  the  coming  night.  The  gleam 
clothed  her  in  its  own  heatless  fire.  She  seemed  a 
bright  beckoning  flame  in  the  flux  of  existence.  To 
her  Maclear  went.  He  struggled  for  reasonable, 
commonplace  words ;  but  his  need  spoke  for  him. 

"Hold  me,"  said  Maclear,  "hold  me  fast—" 

He  knew  that  she  turned  and  looked  at  him.  He 
saw  her  face,  strange  and  beautiful  between  bands  of 
spray-sleeked  hair.  She  did  not  speak.  But  divine 
communication  was  surely  in  the  gesture  with  which 
she  stretched  her  hands  and  drew  him  toward  her. 
He  rested  at  last  at  her  side.  Her  arm  was  about 
him.  She  held  him  fast  against  all  his  storms. 

He  had  no  thought  at  all  but  that  it  was  good  to 
rest  so,  near  the  beating  of  her  heart. 

He  looked  into  her  face.  The  light  made  it 
golden,  wonderful.  Simply  as  a  child  he  asked  her, 
"Who  are  you?" 

"I  am  Sombra." 

The  gleam  died. 


36  THE  BRIDGE 


IV 


"Where  are  you?" 

"I  am  here,  holding  you." 

"It 's  dead  dark.  I  can't  see  you.  But  I  can 
feel  your  arms.  Don't  let  me  go." 

"I  won't  let  you  go." 

"Are  these  your  hands,  brushing  the  sand  from 
my  face?" 

"Yes.  You  fainted  or  something  like.  I  could  n't 
lift  you,  so  I  stayed  with  you.  If  I  'd  gone  for  help, 
I  'd  never  have  found  you  again.  The  sand  would 
have  buried  you." 

"Don't  leave  me  to  the  sand." 

"Trust  me,"  said  the  voice  from  the  night.  "I 
won't  leave  you." 

Again,  after  a  time,  Maclear  asked,  "Where  are 
you?" 

"Here." 

The  voice  came  more  faintly.  He  thought  it  was 
receding  into  the  wind.  He  put  up  his  hand  and 
touched  the  chill  curve  of  a  cheek.  He  could  see 
nothing  at  all,  but  he  felt  that  it  was  wet,  as  though 
with  tears. 

"Why  are  you  crying?" 

"Oh,  what  am  I  to  do!  How  am  I  to  save  you? 
The  sand  and  the  wind  are  makin'  me  weak.  I  can't 
even  keep  your  face  from  the  drift  no  more!" 


THE  SAND  37 

She  was  speaking  with  her  face  close  to  his,  that 
he  might  hear.  He  said,  struggling  to  be  free  of 
the  weariness  that  lay  on  him  like  the  weight  of  the 
sand,  "Is  there  anywhere  to  go,  away  from  this?" 

"Yes,  yes!  If  you  could  move,  if  you  could 
walk—" 

He  fought  to  his  knees,  to  his  feet.  In  the  pitch- 
dark  he  sought  for  her  hands,  found  and  held  them. 
They  sustained  him.  He  said,  "Come." 

The  voice  out  of  the  wind  cried  faintly:  "I  can't 
till  you  help  me.  The  sand  's  over  me  like  a  grave." 

He  mastered  his  lassitude  of  flesh  and  soul, 
stooped,  freed  her  garments  of  the  iron-heavy  drift, 
drew  her  erect  beside  him.  Clinging  together,  they 
staggered  away  into  the  night. 

Maclear  thought  of  nothing  but  that  the  place 
where  she  had  held  him,  where  he  had  rested  in  her 
arms,  was  even  now  lost  and  blotted  out;  that  he 
would  never  be  able  to  find  it  nor  return  to  it. 
By  and  by  he  heard  her  asking,  "Can  you  hear  any- 
thing?" 

"No." 

Again  she  asked  him,  "Can  you  hear  a  sound?" 

"What  sound?" 

"A  sound  as  if  the  wind  was  blowing  in  a  great 
empty  shell?" 

"I  think  so." 

They  went  on.     Presently  she  said:  "Yes,  I  hear 


38  THE  BRIDGE 

it.  It 's  the  wind  in  Morning  House,  and  that 's  my 
home.  We  '11  be  safe  now." 

In  time  they  reached  a  flight  of  steps,  half -buried 
in  sand.  Before  him,  in  the  night,  Maclear  was 
aware  of  a  greater  darkness,  stretching  immeasur- 
ably, and  made  visible  only  by  a  single  thread  of 
light,  a  thin  finger  of  whirling  sand.  He  heard,  too, 
a  low  continuous  sound  of  the  utmost  desolation;  the 
sound  of  the  wind  crying  in  a  wilderness  of  empty 
rooms. 

Then  the  pressure  of  the  wind-storm  suddenly  re- 
leased him.  The  girl  had  led  him  through  a  door. 

They  went  down  a  long  dim  passage,  so  still  after 
the  night  outside  that  he  heard  the  sand  whispering 
between  its  double  row  of  closed  doors.  One  door 
was  open,  showing  light  within;  and  to  this  room  she 
led  him. 

To  Maclear  there  was  an  exquisite  homeliness  in 
the  room  with  its  wooden  walls,  black  stove,  yellow 
wooden  chairs,  and  table  with  a  worn  blue  cloth.  A 
lamp  with  a  yellow  shade  stood  on  the  table,  and  its 
circle  of  light  painted  vividly  upon  shadow  the  dark 
face  of  a  boy  who  sat  there,  and  who  looked  up  as 
they  entered,  crying,  "Sombra!" 

At  the  cry,  an  old  man.  came  from  the  shade  be- 
yond the  lamplight.  He  was  so  tall  his  head  was 
in  shadow.  Shavings  clung  like  flakes  of  light  to 
his  worn  blue  sleeves  as  he  rested  his  great  hands  on 


THE  SAND  39 

the  table,  saying  softly,  "Who  's  that  breathing  there 
beside  ye?" 

"A  man  I  brought  in  from  the  storm." 

The  girl's  voice  came  faintly.  No  one  else  spoke 
or  moved  for  a  minute.  Then  the  old  man  began  to 
advance  softly  round  the  table,  feeling  his  way.  All 
was  so  suddenly  still  Maclear  could  hear  the  faint 
rasp  of  his  knotted  fingers  passing  over  the  cloth. 
He  knew  then  that  this  old  man  was  blind. 

The  blind  face  came  into  the  circle  of  light.  Then 
Maclear  would  have  cried  out.  For  there  was  death 
in  that  face;  death  in  that  outstretched  groping  hand; 
death  and  indestructible  hate  in  the  soul  that  drove 
the  great  aged  body  down  upon  him  with  the  slow 
inevitable  motion  of  shadow  or  cloud.  And  he 
could  not  cry  nor  move. 

His  senses  shrank  and  dwindled  to  an  aching  point, 
a  single  apprehension,  focused  on  that  advancing 
hand. 

All  happened  in  silence.  Since  the  girl's  reply, 
no  one  of  them  had  spoken.  And  now  it  was  in 
apathetic  silence  that  the  tall  boy  who  had  been  sit- 
ting at  the  table  came  and  set  himself  in  the  old 
man's  path.  There  was  something  horrible  to  see 
in  the  way  the  searching  hand  closed  on  him.  Mac- 
lear saw  him  gripped,  shaken,  dragged  from  the 
room,  cast  out;  and  could  not  stir.  If  they  had 
shouted  or  spoken  he  would  have  moved;  but  the 


40  THE  BRIDGE 

silence  bound  him  as  with  ropes.  And  the  boy  suf- 
fered passively  as  a  log,  without  one  gesture  of  re- 
sistance or  any  change  in  his  dark  and  secret  face. 

He  thought,  when  the  boy  had  been  cast  out,  that 
the  old  man  came  back  quietly,  and  fell  to  work 
again  in  his  dim  corner.  But  he  was  not  sure. 

Later,  he  thought  he  heard  some  one  weeping  be- 
side him.  But  he  was  not  sure  of  that  either,  be- 
cause of  the  ceaseless  running  of  the  sand  on  the 
roof  over  his  head. 


Mait  Ransome  sat  at  work  on  the  veranda  of  Morn- 
ing House. 

The  veranda  was  a  hundred  feet  long.  Floored 
with  wood,  the  boards  were  everywhere  thrust  aside 
by  willow  bushes  which  had  grown  up  from  the 
hollow  beneath;  others  had  rotted  away.  Every 
board  was  scoured  to  the  grain  by  the  action  of  the 
sand  that  heaped  the  whole  length  of  it  in  drifts  like 
snow-drifts.  The  wooden  roof  had  fallen,  too,  in 
many  places,  and  at  each  seam  let  in  the  blue  of 
heaven  or  the  rain. 

Behind  the  old  man  were  ten  boarded-up  win- 
dows, flat  and  featureless;  then  a  plain  door;  then 
another  ten  windows.  Above  the  veranda  roof  a 


THE  SAND  41 

row  of  twenty-one  windows  took  the  light  on  their  re- 
maining panes  of  glass.  These  upper  windows  were 
not  protected,  and  the  floors  of  some  of  the  rooms 
behind  them  sagged  with  the  weight  of  the  blown 
sand. 

At  the  back  of  the  house  the  details  of  the  front 
were  exactly  repeated. 

Over  both  the  front  and  the  "back  doors,  a  wooden 
sign  from  which  the  paint  had  long  been  blistered 
still  bore  a  shadow  of  the  words,  "Morning  House. 
M.  Ransome,  Proprietor." 

Long  ago,  in  the  prosperous  times  of  Port  Tallis, 
the  place  had  been  built  for  a  summer  hotel. 

But  before  any  guests  had  come  to  Morning  House 
the  curse  of  the  sand  had  fallen  on  Port  Tallis. 
Some  of  the  slow  uncharted  lake  currents  shifted ;  the 
harbor  silted  up  in  a  year  or  two;  ships  called  there 
no  more,  people  began  to  leave  the  little  frame  houses 
among  the  moving  hills  of  sand.  By  and  by  the 
lighthouse  was  removed,  leaving  nothing  but  its 
round  concrete  foundation  out  in  the  shallows  for 
the  gulls  to  fish  from.  Only  Mait  Ransome  was  left, 
living  on  in  his  empty  hotel,  and  hearing  year  by 
year  the  advance-guard  of  the  sand  whispering  in 
his  hollow  rooms. 

Morning  House  had  known  but  two  guests.  The 
second  of  the  two  was  Alan  Maclear. 


42  THE  BRIDGE 

He  came  out  of  the  door  into  the  young  light  that 
turned  the  dewy  sand  all  gold,  and  said,  "Good 
morning,"  to  Mail  Ransome. 

"It  is  a  good  mornin'.  I  k'n  feel  it."  The 
giant  turned  his  face  to  the  broken  roof,  and  a  ribbon 
of  sun  striped  his  blunted  features  like  a  scar.  He 
resembled  one  of  the  trees  hidden  on  the  beach;  like 
them,  he  seemed  worn  by  ceasejess  attrition  rather 
than  by  age.  While  he  talked  his  huge  hands  worked 
with  wonderful  delicacy,  turning  a  piece  of  wood 
against  the  chisel.  Only  this  deftness  betrayed  his 
blindness.  Moment  by  moment  a  shaving  clear  as 
honey  fell  on  the  pile  at  his  feet.  He  went  on: 
"There  's  been  plenty  of  fine  weather  since  you  come. 
Your  stay  with  us,  sir,  has  been  fort'nate." 

His  voice  was  soft  and  slow,  seeming  to  possess 
some  delicate  quality  akin  to  the  skill  of  his  hands. 
Maclear  wondered,  as  he  had  wondered  many  a  time, 
if  those  hands  had  indeed  been  outstretched  against 
him.  He  asked,  "Do  you  know  how  long  I  Ve  been 
here?" 

"I  ain't  kep'  account,  sir.     I  leave  it  to  Sombra." 

"It  is  nearly  a  month  ago  that  my  camp  was 
washed  away,  and  she  brought  me  here.  Nearly  a 
month,"  repeated  Maclear,  watching  the  ceaseless 
curl  and  fall  of  the  fine  shavings. 

"It 's  not  many  gent'men  would  be  content  in  such 


THE  SAND  43 

a  poor  place  as  this.  And  you've  only  been  over 
to  town  with  the  boy  once  since  you  come." 

"I  have  been  very  happy  here,"  answered  Mac- 
lear,  gently.  As  if  this  thought  led  naturally  to  the 
next,  he  asked,  "Where  's  Sombra?" 

"Down  to  the  lagoon,  sailin'  the  boats." 

Maclear  went  down  to  the  lagoon. 

It  was  a  way  he  had  trodden  many  times  since  he 
came  to  Port  Tallis  in  the  storm. 

It  was  a  golden  way;  the  light  on  the  dancing  pop- 
lar leaves  was  gold,  the  dunes  were  gold  with  their 
dews.  Here  and  there  boards  thrust  from  them, 
splayed  fences,  tilted  wooden  walks,  as  well  as  the 
blanched  roots  of  trees.  This  was  little  Port  Tallis, 
taken  by  the  sand.  Through  this  sun-sweetened  des- 
olation, growing  daily  more  dear  and  more  familiar, 
Maclear  went  down  to  the  lagoon. 

Sombra  was  standing  barefooted  in  the  shallow 
blue  water,  sailing  a  toy  boat.  Half  a  score  others 
lay  pn  the  sand,  waiting  their  turn.  For  to  this 
Mait  Ransome's  strength  had  come.  He  made  toy 
boats  for  the  stores  in  the  town,  and  Sombra  tested 
them. 

She  stooped  earnestly  above  the  little  craft  she 
sailed;  the  ends  of  her  two  black  plaits  whipped  the 
water.  The  boat  was  lateen-rigged  and  painted  scar- 
let. Presently  it  faltered  in  its  fairy  course  and 


44  THE  BRIDGE 

swamped  among  the  bur-reed  on  the  bank.  Maclear 
said,  "Sombra." 

She  did  not  smile  as  she  turned  her  head  and  saw 
him.  But  behind  her  dark  beauty  a  glow  dawned 
like  the  glow  of  the  sky. 

She  was  tall  and  of  a  noble  strength,  and  young, 
not  more  than  eighteen.  Her  black  braids  framed 
an  oval  face,  tanned  almost  to  the  color  of  gold. 
Her  mouth  was  rather  large,  but  it  had  the  hue  and 
the  texture  of  certain  dark  roses.  Her  brows  were 
very  black,  and  had  the  languid  arch  of  the  sickle, 
so  rarely  seen,  and  the  eyes  under  them  were  splen- 
did. She  lifted  the  boat,  waded  ashore,  and  showed 
it  to  Maclear.  She  said  seriously,  "It  don't  sail 
right." 

"What 's  the  matter  with  it,  Sombra?" 

"The  mast  hasn't  enough  rake  forward,  I  think. 
It  must  be  fixed  before  Sal  takes  it  across.  The 
others  will  be  all  right.  Lugs  and  schooners — 
they  're  easy;  they  rake  aft." 

Smiling,  he  told  her,  "What  a  lot  you  know,  Som- 
bra!" 

She  looked  at  him  gravely.  "Since  you  come,  it 
don't  seem  to  me  I  know  anything." 

"Do  you  know  that  I  Ve  been  here  nearly  a  month? 
And  that  I  've  never  thanked  you  for  letting  me 
stay?" 

"There  was  no  need.     There 's  rooms  enough, — 


THE  SAND  45 

forty  and  more,  not  countin'  the  downstairs.  Why 
should  n't  you  come  to  us  when  your  camp  was 
washed  away?  We're  the  only  folk  left  on  the  is- 
land. Why  should  n't  you  stay  if  you  're  content 
with  the  poor  stuff  we  k'n  give  you?"  Suddenly 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  "I  'd  give  you  better  if 
I  could,"  she  said. 

More  than  her  strength  or  her  beauty,  this  humil- 
ity in  her  moved  him.  Another  man  might  have 
taken  her  in  his  arms,  told  her  his  heart.  But  Mac- 
lear  was  hard.  The  time  was  not  yet  ripe  to  him;  he 
yet  doubted,  delayed.  He  knew  that  if  he  could 
love  any  woman  in  the  world,  this  girl  was  she.  He 
knew  that  love  was  advancing  on  him  like  the  ad- 
vance of  seasons,  the  coming-on  of  years:  as  irre- 
sistibly. But  he  would  neither  question  its  kind  nor 
hurry  its  advent.  Enough  at  present  to  see  her,  to 
know  her  near.  Sometimes  not  speaking  to  her 
much,  nor  even  looking  at  her ;  but  allowing  her  pres- 
ence to  absorb  every  channel  of  his  sense  and  his  life, 
so  that  there  should  be  no  room  for  any  other  guest. 

He  answered  gently:  "There  could  be  nothing  bet- 
ter for  me  than  what  you  give,  what  you  have  given." 
He  thought  of  what  yet  she  might  give,  and  the  blood 
flushed  his  face.  "That  night  when  I  first  came  to. 
you,  and  said,  'Hold  me,'  and  you  held  me  in  your 
arms — " 

They  looked  gravely  at  each  other.     Hitherto  that 


46  THE  BRIDGE 

night  had  not  been  spoken  of  between  them;  now  at 
the  appointed  time  it  came  to  light,  to  words.  Those 
words  seemed  to  weave  them  together  with  invisible 
strands.  Maclear  had  known  it  would  be  so.  He 
was  content  to  leave  the  unfolding  of  his  passion  to 
those  influences  of  the  place  to  which  he  had  utterly 
surrendered  himself. 

"That  night,  Sombra,  I  came  to  you  in  great  trou- 
ble." 

"I  knew." 

"You  gave  me  the  only  rest  I  have  known  from  it." 

"All  trouble  's  the  better  for  somethin'  to  hold  to. 
Comfort  just  comes  to  that, — a  hand  held  out. 
When  the  trouble's  bad,  don't  matter  whose  it  is." 

"Mine  was  bad  trouble." 

"I  knew  that,  too." 

"So  bad  that  I  'd  even  tried  to  lose  it  in  death,  as 
well  as  that  death  of  the  whole  nature  of  man  that  is 
in  perfect  solitude." 

She  watched  him,  wondering. 

"It  was  no  use, — no  use  at  all."  Maclear  for  the 
moment  had  forgotten  her,  he  spoke  low  and  pas- 
sionately. "I  realize — now — that  I  '11  never  forget 
it,  never  get  over  it,  that  way.  Such  a  trouble,  such 
a  memory  must  have  full  power  over  a  heart  and  a 
mind — empty.  But  if  that  heart,  that  life,  were  so 
full  of  better  things  that  there  was  no  room  for  the 
trouble  and  the  memory — " 


THE  SAND  47 

He  broke  off  abruptly.  His  need  again  tad 
spoken  for  him,  said  more,  perhaps,  than  he  had  in- 
tended to  say.  But  as  he  looked  at  her,  his  eyes 
burned  with  a  flame  that  lighted  a  grave,  innocent 
light  in  her  own.  He  asked,  in  a  quick,  rough  voice: 
"Sombra,  if  you  had  known,  that  night  I  came  to 
you  in  the  storm,  that  I  'd  done  something  very  bad, 
very  dreadful,  would  you  still  have  held  me  ,in 
your  arms?" 

He  waited  without  stirring  for  her  answer,  his 
blue  eyes  intent.  It  came  slowly:  "If  you're  to 
help,  if  you  're  to  give  comfort,  it  don't  do  to  think 
of  more  than  the  givin',  or  maybe  the  chance  '11  go. 
The  want  of  it 's  all.  The  givin'  's  all.  The  rest 
don't  matter."  She  looked  away.  He  saw  her  lips 
tremble.  "I  never  thought  of  things  like  this  till 
you  come." 

He  was  trembling  a  little  when  he  said,  still  with 
that  fierce  earnestness:  "Sombra,  I'd  done  nothing 
bad, — nothing  with  a  bad  intent." 

She  turned  her  face  to  him  again.  She  was 
faintly  smiling. 

"What  I  did  had  a  terrible  result.  Life  turned 
against  me.  It  was  like  using  a  tool,  and  having  it 
slip,  and  cut  your  hand.  Yes,  like  that.  I  did  it. 
But  I'm  not  guilty  of  that  result." 

He  had  been  speaking  to  something  that  was  not 
Sombra.  When  she  said  softly,  "I  believe  you," 


48  THE  BRIDGE 

he  remembered  her.  His  eyes  rested  on  her.  The 
storm  died  out  of  him.  He  said,  a  little  unsteadily: 
"You  hold  me.  Sombra,  what  were  you  doing  on 
the  beach  that  night?" 

"Often  I  go  to  that  beach  in  a  storm.  I  think, 
Suppose  another  ship  was  to  come  ashore  there,  and 
no  light,  and  no  one  by." 

"Another  ship?" 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  then  said  slowly:  "My 
father's  was  wrecked  there  in  a  spring  blow,  comin* 
up  from  carryin'  fruit  in  the  Gulf,  'to  take  on  the 
excursion  trade  on  the  lakes  at  the  openin'  of  navi- 
gation. A  few  years  back  you  could  still  see  some 
of  it,  out  there  on  the  ledge.  But  it  was  an  iron 
ship.  There 's  nothing  left  now." 

He  said  nothing.  In  his  presence  she  had  always 
been  reticent;  a  little  shy,  a  little  proud;  he  had  never 
questioned  her,  though  the  household  at  the  ruinous 
hotel  had  given  him  enough  cause  for  curiosity.  He 
had  been  content  to  wait  for  knowledge,  too ;  sure  that 
the  impersonal  powers  to  which  he  had  made  over 
his  own  will  would  in  their  time  unfold  it. 

"The  boat  struck  there  on  the  shoal.  Nothin' 
come  ashore  but  my  father  and  some  pulped  oranges. 
The  beach  was  yellow  with  them  for  miles.  The 
hotel  was  nearly  finished  then,  and  my  mother — she 
was  first-cousin  to  Mait — was  helpin'  him  run  it. 


THE  SAND  49 

They  took  my  father  there.  He  was  sick  a  long  time. 
He  could  n't  work  nor  talk  much  English,  but  he 
could  sing  so  you  could  hear  him  'way  out  on  the 
fishin'-ground.  At  the  end  of  the  summer  my 
mother  was  married  to  him.  At  the  end  of  that 
winter  he  died. 

"Next  fall,  Sal  and  me  was  born.  We  're  twins. 
But  mother  did  n't  live  long  after.  I  've  thought  of 
them  two  so  much — so  much!  Seems  as  if  I  knew 
why  she  died."  Her  voice  sank  to  a  breath.  "He 
come  like  the  sun.  He  went  like  the  sun.  It  was  too 
cold  for  her  to  live  without  him. 

"He  's  buried  in  a  little  graveyard  back  among  the 
sand-hills.  One  day  I  '11  show  you.  It  ain't  been 
used  for  years.  His  stone  's  the  only  one  standin' 
now.  'J.  M.  Luz,'  it  has  on  it,  'beloved  husband  of 
Martha  Ransome,  aged  twenty-eight  years.  His  ban- 
ner over  me  was  love.'  I  've  heard  she  had  terr'ble 
trouble  to  get  that  tex'  on  the  stone.  They  said  it 
was  n't  in  the  Bible.  But  it  was.  That  was  the  last 
thing  she  minded  about.  Theirs  was  a  short  day/' 

"But  a  summer  one." 

She  looked  at  him  softly.  "Thank  you.  You 
always  put  things  right  for  me." 

"Then  your  name  is  not  Ransome?" 

"No.  This  was  my  father's  name."  She  stooped 
and  wrote  slowly  on  the  sand,  "Juan-Maddalena  Luz." 


50  THE  BRIDGE 

She  went  on;  "My  name's  Sombra  Luz.  Sal's  is 
Salvator  Luz.  But  we  're  mostly  called  Ransome." 

"Strange  names,  Sombra,  for  Tallis  Island." 

She  said  simply,  "Father,  he  wanted  Mother  to  use 
one  or  the  other,  not  thinkin'  she  'd  have  a  call  for 
both." 

He  watched  her  as  she  stooped  again  and  passed 
her  hand  over  the  writing  in  the  sand.  Even  so,  he 
thought,  had  death  blotted  out  the  owner  of  the  name, 
that  man  of  the  South  who  had  come  up  from  fruit- 
loading  along  the  Floridas,  been  wrecked  on  Tallis 
Island,  and  died  after  setting  up  his  banner  over  the 
heart  of  Martha  Ransome.  What  currents,  he  won- 
dered, of  snow  and  sun,  shadow  and  fire,  might  be 
mingled  in  this  girl  whose  name  was  both  shadow 
and  light? 

Sombra  went  on,  with  a  timid  kind  of  pride  that 
escaped  him:  "Mail's  real  well  educated.  And  Sal 
and  me  have  had  schoolin'.  There  was  a  school  kep' 
on  here  for  a  long  while,  and  we-'ve  studied  a  little 
since."  His  thought  burned  on  his  lips: 

"Sombra,  how  beautiful  you  are!" 

She  glowed  to  greater  beauty  as  he  said  it. 

And,  of  a  sudden,  he  was  sure  of  her;  her  soft 
surrendered  eyes  told  him  that  he  had  only  to  ask, 
and  she  would  give,  greatly.  He  guessed  that,  for 
all  her  reticence,  the  genius  for  giving  was  hers,  as 
the  genius  for  art  or  for  work  might  be  another's. 


THE  SAND  51 

But  he  had  not  yet  the  assurance  of  due  time;  of 
himself  he  was  not  yet  quite  sure.  The  instinct  for 
possession  was  strong  in  him.  So  also  was  the  in- 
stinct of  mastery.  He  would  not  possess  at  all  until 
he  could  possess  utterly. 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  gently,  lifted  and  held 
one  of  her  long  black  braids  still  sparkling  with 
water.  It  lay  across  his  open  palm.  But  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  had  not  strength  enough  to  free  her 
hair;  to  him,  that  he  had  not  strength  enough  to  let 
it  go. 

"I  have  never  forgotten  that  first  day  at  Morning 
House,  Sombra.  Do  you  remember?  I  came  down 
from  the  room  in  which  you  and  Sal  had  put  me, 
not  knowing  what  I  should  find.  And  I  found  you 
standing  at  the  kitchen  door.  The  blue  lake  was 
behind  you,  and  the  foam,  and  the  sun  on  the  sand, 
and  the  poplar  trees.  You  held  a  sand-swallow  in 
your  hands.  As  I  watched,  it  flashed  away,  a  little 
dark  streak  into  the  light;  and  then  you  turned,  and 
smiled,  and  saw  me.  You  told  me  that  the  swallow 
had  been  blown  into  the  hall  over-night,  and  that 
you  'd  kept  it  in  your  work-box  near  the  stove,  and 
now  that  it  was  well  it  had  gone.  And  I  said,  'Then 
there  's  more  than  one  hurt  thing  you  Ve  sheltered 
from  the  storm.'  Later,  I  talked  to  Mait.  And 
when  I  spoke  to  you,  you  said,  'Stay.'  Perhaps  you 
meant  this  hurt  thing  to  stay  too  till  it  was  well — M 


52  THE  BRIDGE 

She  did  not  answer  except  with  the  pure  compassion 
of  her  eyes. 

"I  should  like  to  see  real  diamonds  in  your  hair, 
Sombra.  Not  these  water  diamonds.  I  should  like 
to  dress  you  in  silk  the  color  of  the  deep  water  out 
there  beyond  the  shoal;  or  in  honey-gold,  the  color 
of  that  little  rose  you  have  in  your  garden;  or  all  in 
white—" 

His  voice  sank.  She  was  pale,  glancing  down  tim- 
idly at  her  bare  brown  feet,  her  shabby  skirt,  the 
cheap  cotton  blouse  that  strained  against  the  swell 
of  the  breast.  She  seemed  very  mean  in  her  own 
sight. 

"You  are  like  a  golden  rose.  And  you  Ve  been 
growing  here  in  the  sand  for  years.'" 

He  was  held  by  the  miracle  of  her  mere  physical 
bloom  and  perfection  in  such  a  place.  But  she  an- 
swered his  last  words: 

"Yes.  I  Ve  been  here  all  my  life.  When  my 
mother  died  Mail  took  us,  for  he  was  her  nearest 
kin,  and  the  Ransomes  always  hold  together,  for 
pride.  But — " 

For  a  moment  a  shadow,  a  reflection  like  the  re- 
flection of  fear  from  some  other  face,  darkened  hers. 
Maclear's  silence  yet  questioned  her.  Lifting  her 
eyes,  she  said  in  a  low  voice:  "But  he  hates  us. 
Don't  ask  me  how  I  know.  I  know.  We  remind 
him.  He  loved  my  mother  before  my  father  came. 


THE  SAND  53 

Don't  ask  me  how  I  know  that,  either.  I  kfiow. 
And  he  hated  my  father.  And  he  hates  us. 

"He  hates  Sal  more  'n  me — feelin'  my  father  more 
in  him.  He  's  been  terr  'ble  hard  on  Sal.  Often- 
times it 's  been  in  my  heart  to  quit,  for  Sal's  sake. 
But,  after  all,  he  's  kep'  us,  and  worked  to  do  it. 
I  could  n't  quit  him,  not  altogether.  And  Sal  won't 
quit  me. 

"When  he  'd  his  sight,  't  was  n't  so  bad,  though 
often  he  'd  fall  into  such  a  rage  he  'd  go  crazy,  and 
seem  'most  ready  to  kill  Sal.  But  as  he  grew  old, 
and  his  sight  failed,  and  his  stren'th,  he  come  to 
think  of  nothin'  else  but  what  was  past.  His  mind 
ain't  just  right,  for  all  he  's  so  quiet  and  so  clever 
with  the  little  boats.  Whenever  there 's  a  storm, 
Mait  goes  back  in  his  mind  to  the  one  when  my 
father's  boat  was  wrecked.  He  looks  to  see  the  men 
carry  my  father  in,  and  my  mother  go  to  him  and 
take  his  head  on  her  knees.  Perhaps  Mait  does  see 
it,  in  the  dark.  That  night,  when  I  brought  you  in, 
he  thought  you  was  my  father,  come  back  from  the 
storm." 

"Then  it  was  to  save  me  your  brother  put  himself 
in  Mail's  way?" 

She  smiled  tremulously,  though  there  were  tears 
in  her  eyes:  "We  always  have  to  do  that  when 
the  storm  's  real  heavy.  It  seems  then  as  if  Mait  'd 
have  no  rest,  go  quite  mad,  unless  he  could  get  at  my 


54  THE  BRIDGE 

father  to  turn  him  out!  So  Sal  goes  and  gets  in  his 
way,  and  he  puts  Sal  out,  and  quiets  down.  Sal,  he 
just  goes  in  at  the  back  door  again."  Once  more  her 
eyes  darkened,  her  brown  hands  went  with  passion  to 
her  heart.  "But  sometimes — oh,  sometimes,  Mr. 
Maclear,  I  'm  afraid!  I  'm  afraid  of  Sal.  It  looks, 
sometimes,  as  if  Mait  was  standin'  in  front  of  a  glass 
he  could  n't  see  into  when  he  stands  in  front  of  Sal, 
and  as  if  that  glass  was  givin'  him  back  his  own 
crazy  hate  from  my  brother's  face.  Then — then  I  'm 
afraid.  I  see  nothin'  but  grief." 

Maclear  was  silent.  Then  he  laughed.  He  lifted 
the  black  hair  that  lay  across  his  hand,  and  kissed  it, 
in  defiance  of  the  passions  and  sorrows  of  past  years, 
of  hearts  long  blown  with  the  sand. 

"What 's  all  that,"  he  said  roughly,  "to  the  life 
that 's  in  one  strand  of  this?  And  what 's  life  but 
love,  Sombra?" 

For  a  moment  the  world  was  so  still  he  heard  the 
beating  of  his  own  heart,  the  mewing  of  the  gulls  a 
mile  away,  the  soft,  innumerable  sound  of  the  dunes, 
never  quite  at  rest.  But  the  time  was  not  yet.  He 
pressed  the  plait  again  to  his  lips,  dropped  it,  and 
for  that  day  let  her  go. 

But  that  evening,  when  they  sat  together  in  the 
lamp-lit  kitchen,  and  he  watched  the  dark  of  her  hair 
in  the  shadow,  and  her  hands  like  gold  as  she  sewed, 


THE  SAND  55 

the  sense  of  her  presence  became  something  too 
poignant  to  be  borne.  He  went  then  and  paced  the 
glimmering  island  beaches,  that  night  of  late  summer, 
towering  into  stars,  no  more  than  a  sufficient  roof 
for  Sombra  and  his  love. 


VI 


"There 's  a  run  of  herrin'  in  the  shoal  water. 
I  'm  go  in'  to  spear  some  from  the  ledge.  Will  you 
like  to  come?" 

The  voice  was  Salvator's.  Maclear  paused  a 
minute  in  astonishment;  the  boy  had  hitherto  been 
so  unapproachable,  so  watchfully  wild;  then  he  said, 
"Yes,  thanks,  1 11  come." 

He  had  been  going  to  bed  in  the  sandy  room  set 
apart  for  him,  and  furnished  by  Sombra  from  her 
own,  and  Sal's,  and  Mail's,  with  much  eager  shame 
and  anxiety  of  heart.  He  slipped  on  his  coat  again 
and  opened  the  door.  Sal  was  waiting  for  him  in 
the  half -ruined  hall,  lighted  only  by  a  young  moon 
now  setting. 

If  Sal's  words  had  been  friendly,  his  face — so  like 
Sombra's  and  all  but  as  beautiful — held  no  more 
than  its  usual  look  of  dumb  and  secret  resistance. 
Maclear  was  a  little  chilled.  Time  after  time  he  had 
stretched  out  hands  of  affection  toward  that  alien, 


56  THE  BRIDGE 

reserved  spirit,  which  had,  time  after  time,  eluded 
him;  so  that  he  had  been  left  holding  nothing,  as 
though  he  had  grasped  at  sand. 

Time  after  time  the  lad's  likeness  to  Sombra  had 
pulled  at  his  heart  and  he  had  tried  again. 

Sal,  seeing  him  now,  said  nothing  but  "Come." 
He  turned  down  the  passage,  and  Maclear  followed 
him.  They  kept  close  to  the  wall  with  its  row  of 
closed  and  rotting  doors,  for  the  flooring  in  the  center 
was  unsafe;  and  Maclear  felt  that  wall  and  doors 
were  alike  coated  with  a  scum  of  sand. 

Outside,  Sal  gave  him  his  fish-spear — which  was 
no  more  than  a  large  steel  fork  bound  to  a  stick — 
and  a  bundle  of  frayed  willow  roots  tied  together  and 
dipped  in  oil  or  tar  to  form  a  torch.  They  went 
down  to  the  beach  together.  By  the  ledge  of  rock, 
crested  with  sand,  which  here  thrust  out  from  shore 
as  straight  as  a  groin,  Sal  stopped.  Maclear  took 
off  his  shoes  while  Sal  lighted  the  smoky  torches. 

In  the  low  moonlight  Tallis  Island  lay  like  stilled 
waves  of  shadow  and  silver.  Not  a  leaf  moved. 
Peewits  cried  sadly  from  the  inner  marshes.  The 
lake  was  a  rippleless  cloth  of  silver,  running  for 
miles,  whispering  at  the  rim.  Under  the  lee  of  the 
ledge,  where  the  herring  had  shoaled,  it  flashed  per- 
petually, a  brighter  flickering  silver  of  the  sides  of 
leaping  fish.  Maclear  and  Sal,  each  carrying  a  spear 
and  a  torch,  waded  out  along  the  narrow  ledge. 


THE  SAND  57 

Maclear  was  held  there,  less  by  the  sport — if  such 
it  could  be  called — than  by  the  beauty  of  the  night 
and  the  desire  to  establish  some  sort  of  comradeship 
with  Sal.  By  and  by  he  gave  up  spearing  on  his  own 
account  and  watched  Sal. 

The  boy  stood  almost  motionless  in  the  shallows, 
torch  lowered  to  the  water  and  sending  along  its 
bright  surface  a  trail  of  smoke  and  a  gleam  of  red 
flame,  in  which  the  sides  of  the  turning  fish  shone 
red  also.  His  attitude,  as  he  waited  with  his  prim- 
Stive  spear  poised,  seemed  to  Maclear  singularly 
and  wildly  graceful;  and  he  saw  that  the  motion  of 
the  spear,  when  it  fell,  was  too  swift  to  follow  with 
the  eye,  and  that  each  time  it  rose,  another  herring 
was  added  to  the  twitching  heap  in  the  basket  Sal 
had  brought  with  him.  Maclear  was  fascinated  a 
little  by  the  spitting  redness  of  the  flame,  the  accu- 
rate descent  of  the  spear.  He  said,  when  the  basket 
was  full  and  the  boy  rejoined  him  on  the  sand, 
"You  've  speared  about  three  times  as  many  as  I 
have." 

The  dark  eyes — so  like,  so  unlike,  Sombra's — 
rested  on  him  indifferently.  Sal  only  asked,  "Will 
we  go  back  now?" 

"The  night 's  too  fine  to  leave.  Shall  we  have  a 
swim?" 

"All  right." 

"I  '11  race  you  to  that  rock  out  there." 


58  THE  BRIDGE 

Sal  did  not  answer.  Where  the  ledge  joined  the 
beach  he  thrust  the  two  torches  into  the  sand. 
They  sent  up  a  blur  of  reddened  smoke  upon  the 
pearly  night. 

Beyond  the  torches,  out  on  the  ledge,  Sal  and  Mac- 
lear  slipped  off  their  clothes.  Maclear  saw  on  the 
boy's  body  old  bruises;  he  knew  some  of  them  had 
been  taken  on  that  night  when  he  first  went  to  Morn- 
ing House,  and  Sal  had  set  himself  in  the  way  of 
Mail  RansomeJs  groping  hands.  He  was  moved. 
For  a  moment  he  reached  after  an  inner  meaning,  in 
Ithe  apparent!  fatt,  that  escaped  him.  Then  they 
dived  together.  And  he  forgot  everything  in  the 
foreseen  delight  of  the  cool  water  racing  along  his 
limbs. 

He  felt  without  words  a  brief,  exquisite  sense  of 
his  own  union  with  nature,  and  again  with  life.  He 
was  in  communication  with  the  night  and  the  stars. 
Love  was  awaking  in  him  those  delicate  perceptions 
which  hardly  belong  to  the  realm  of  the  flesh.  His 
strength  was  at  full  head  in  him.  He  laughed;  he 
could  Jiave  sung  aloud  with  pleasure  in  his  own 
vigor.  He  felt  himself  flashing  effortless  through 
that  silver  calm.  He  paused  an  instant  and  glanced 
back  for  Salvator. 

He  had  been  sure  the  boy  would  be  behind  him. 
But  the  black  head  and  the  bruised  olive  shoulder 
flashing  like  glass  in  the  moon  were  beside  him. 


THE  SAND  59 

A  queer  sense  of  danger  came  to  Maclear.  He 
felt  he  must  outstrip  Sal  in  the  race  to  the  rock. 
He  swam  as  he  never  had  swum  before.  But  the 
black  head  was  always  at  his  side.  And  at  the  last 
the  boy  dived  beneath  Maclear,  came  up  on  his  other 
side,  and  touched  the  rock  before  him. 

The  action  was  almost  insolent.  Maclear  touched 
the  rock  too,  turned,  and  swam  back.  He  could 
not  keep  up  with  Sal.  When  he  came  to  the  ledge 
the  boy  was  standing  on  it,  glittering  in  the  moon- 
light, and  stooping  to  give  Maclear  a  hand  out. 

Maclear  said,  pulling  on  his  trousers:  "I  thought 
I  could  swim.  But  I  wonder  how  many  yards  you 
could  give  me  in  a  quarter-mile!" 

Again  the  obscure  dark  eyes  rested  on  him  in- 
differently. Sal  answered,  "It 's  all  I  k'n  do, — 
swim." 

"You  do  that  well." 

"It 's  not  much.  There  's  other  things  I  'd  like  to 
be  able  to  do.  But  I  've  never  had  a  chance  at 
learnin'  'em."  Suddenly  he  turned  on  Maclear,  with 
a  movement  so  quick  it  was  almost  threatening.  He 
asked,  "K'n  you  wrestle?" 

"Yes." 

"And  box?" 

"I  used  to  box  a  great  deal  at  one  time." 

There  was  an  odd  silence.  Then  Salvator  drew 
a  sharp  breath.  His  lean,  tanned  chest  lifted  as 


60  THE  BRIDGE 

though  he  sobbed.  The  blood  ran  to  his  dark  cheeks, 
his  eyes  glowed,  softly  eager.  He  seemed  in  that 
instant  to  come  alive,  as  though  before  he  had  been 
dead. 

Maclear  watched.  The  likeness  to  Sombra  almost 
hurt  him.  He  asked,  smiling  at  this  young  eager- 
ness, "Would  you  like  me  to  show  you  how?" 

"You — you — would  you  show  me?" 

Maclear  laughed  aloud.  "Now,  if  you  like. 
The  moon  gives  us  light  enough,  and  the  sand  makes 
soft  falling." 

The  coat  he  had  taken  up  to  put  on,  he  laid  back 
on  the  rocks.  Sal's  dark  eyes  burned  on  him. 
There  was  no  sound  but  the  cry  of  the  peewits.  He 
nodded,  and  the  boy  advanced,  his  hands  awkwardly 
raised. 

"Mr.  Maclear!" 

"Well?" 

"Let 's  have  it  this  way," — the  intent,  secret  gaze 
never  left  Maclear's  face — "You  see  them  torches?" 

Behind  them,  at  the  end  of  the  ledge,  the  two 
torches  yet  flared  smokily,  like  spots  of  anger  on 
the  silver  purity  of  the  night. 

"Yes." 

"Let 's  have  it  like  this:  You  try  to  pass  them 
torches ;  I  '11  try  to  stop  you." 

"All  right." 

They  began.     For  a  time  there  was  no  sound  but 


THE  SAND  61 

the  light  motion  of  their  feet  in  the  sand,  Maclear's 
curt  directions,  and  the  wail  of  the  unseen  birds. 

Then  Maclear  said,  "You  must  n't  let  me  hit  you 
so  much." 

Sal  had  fallen  back.  He  listened  with  his  old 
guarded  look.  He  said,  "I  was  waitin'." 

"What  for?" 

"My  chance  of  gettin'  in  a  real  blow.  I  'm  used 
to  bein'  hit." 

"Well,  you  wait  too  long.     Come." 

Sal  advanced  again.  He  asked,  "Are  you  any 
nearer  them  torches?" 

After  a  moment  Maclear  said:  "No.     I  am  not." 

Sal  did  not  speak.     They  began  again. 

The  boy  attempted  no  defense,  save  that  he  clum- 
sily shielded  his  head.  He  simply  barred  Maclear's 
way  with  his  body,  and  suffered  the  blows  mutely. 
Maclear  wearied  of  this  opposing  inertia,  this  soft, 
dumb  resistance.  It  was  like  fighting  the  sand. 
Something — the  hour;  the  silence;  the  boy's  strange 
apathy,  which  seemed  yet  to  conceal  something  for- 
midable— touched  his  nerves.  He  dropped  his 
guard  a  moment,  without  thought;  saw,  simulta- 
neously, the  dull  face  flame  to  sudden  white  life;  then 
came  the  blow. 

It  was  so  savage,  so  fierce,  that  it  might  have  been 
fatal  had  it  come  from  a  man  quite  full-grown.  It 
seemed  that  only  the  ferocity  of  a  devil  could  have 


62  THE  BRIDGE 

driven  it  across  a  space  of  ten  inches  so  hard  to  the 
point  of  Maclear's  chin.  As  it  was,  his  knees  gave 
and  he  went  down.  He  was  up  again  almost  in- 
stantly, sick  and  numbed,  his  good-will  outraged. 
For  neither  recklessness  nor  ignorance  could  excuse 
the  quality  of  that  blow. 

He  would  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  He  picked 
up  his  coat  and  turned  toward  the  beach  where  the 
stumps  of  the  torches  smoked.  He  lifted  his  hand 
to  send  Sal  out  of  the  way, — into  the  water,  for  all 
he  cared,  for  a  cooling.  Though  all  the  time  he 
knew  that  the  heat  was  his  own,  that  Sal  was  cold  and 
watchful;  and  the  knowledge  added  to  his  bewilder- 
ment. He  took  three  steps;  and  Sal  slipped  under 
his  raised  arm  and  closed. 

They  swayed  a  moment  and  went  down  together. 

Whatever  incomprehensible  purpose  lay  behind  all 
this, — and  Maclear  was  assured  of  a  purpose, — he 
did  not  want  to  hurt  this  lad,  so  piercingly  like  Som- 
bra.  But  his  temper  was  rising.  He  was  fighting 
it  more  than  he  was  fighting  Sal. 

They  strained  on  the  ledge,  half  in  the  water,  in 
dead  silence.  The  attack  had  been  so  unexpected 
that  Maclear  was  underneath.  He  saw  Sal's  face 
above  him,  eager,  yet  infinitely  removed;  absorbed 
in  some  secret  preoccupation.  Then  he  put  out  his 
strength,  turned,  and  rose,  trying  to  break  free.  But 
Sal  rose  with  him,  clinging  stubbornly.  Again  Mac- 


THE  SAND  63 

lear  loosened  that  hold.  But  it  closed  on  him  else- 
where, ineffectual  yet  inescapable.  He  broke  away 
at  last,  and,  as  the  boy  staggered,  slipped  forward 
a  foot  and  tripped  him.  Sal  caught  at  Maclear's 
arms  and  pulled  him  down,  too.  They  twisted  again 
in  the  sand,  close-locked.  Maclear  felt  a  faint 
shock  of  uneasiness,  almost  of  fear.  One  would 
have  thought  they  were  fighting  for  life,  the  boy  was 
so  persistent,  so  insensible,  so  relentless.  His  mind 
went  again  to  the  sand, — to  the  clinging,  choking, 
yielding,  unyielding  sand. 

He  said  through  his  teeth:  "I  warn  you.  When 
my  chance  comes,  I  shall  hit  you  without  mercy!" 

There  was  no  reply.  The  tense  struggle  did  not 
relax.  Sal's  look  was  still  informed  with  purpose; 
still,  in  some  way  not  to  be  explained,  remote.  Mac- 
lear knew  he  must  end  it.  With  an  effort  he  broke 
free,  sprang  back,  and,  as  the  boy  plunged  blindly 
forward  to  clinch  again,  he  struck  without  mercy,  as 
he  had  promised. 

Sal  tossed  his  arms,  spun  half  round,  and  dropped 
on  the  sand. 

Maclear  stood  panting.  He  had  been  fighting 
harder  than  he  would  have  thought  possible;  and  the 
torches  were  still  smoldering  behind  him  between 
the  ledge  and  the  beach.  He  looked  at  the  long 
sprawl  of  the  young  body  in  the  moonlight.  The 
upturned  face  was  all  Sombra's.  Maclear  was 


64  THE  BRIDGE 

afraid;  his  heart  contracted.  He  carried  Sal  past  the 
torches,  laid  him  on  the  beach,  brought  water  and 
bathed  his  face;  presently  the  boy's  eyes  opened, 
and  he  looked  quietly  at  Maclear. 

"I  'm  sorry  I  hurt  you,  lad,"  said  Maclear,  his 
anger  all  gone  out  of  him,  "but  you  made  me." 

He  need  not  have  justified  himself.  For  Sal's 
answer  was  a  smile,  so  suddenly,  vividly  tender  that 
Maclear  was  dumb.  He  dreamed  of  some  day  see- 
ing Sombra  smile  at  him  with  some  such  fond  look — 
only  different,  different.  Sal  said:  "It's  all  right. 
I  'm  used  to  bein'  hit.  And  you  done  that  fine." 

After  a  moment  Maclear  helped  him  to  his  feet. 
He  winced  and  whitened,  but  refused  more  help. 
He  said  it  was  only  his  shoulder,  where  he  had  hit 
on  it  when  he  fell.  His  one  anxiety  seemed  to  be 
that  Maclear  should  not  be  troubled.  His  own  face, 
with  its  strange,  brooding  look  of  absorption,  was 
yet  serene.  "I  won't  be  able  to  row  the  boat  for  a 
week,  and  Sombra  '11  have  to  take  the  next  lot  of 
toy  boats  to  town.  But  it  was  worth  it." 

"Why  did  you  make  me  do  it,  Sal?" 

"I — wanted  to  see — what  I  could  do — against  a 
grown  man." 

"Well,  you  know  now." 

"Yes,  I  know  now." 

"You  young  fool,"  said  Maclear,  roughly,  "I  might 
have  killed  you!" 


THE  SAND  65 

With  his  faint  secret  smile,  Sal  pulled  the  stumps 
of  the  torches  from  the  sand,  and  cast  them  into  the 
lake.  They  drew  a  thread  of  sparks  through  the  air, 
hissed,  and  were  extinguished. 

Maclear  remembered  that  he  had  not  passed  them. 

In  the  calm  darkening  night,  lit  with  large  stars, 
they  went  back  together  to  Morning  House.  Maclear 
walked  with  his  arm  about  Salvator,  and  he  had 
never  felt  the  boy  so  distant.  The  meaning  of  it  all 
had  eluded  him;  once  more  he  had  grasped  at  sand. 
He  had  been  passive  throughout,  as  when  he  crouched 
on  the  beach  in  the  storm,  blown  over  by  the  wind 
and  the  sand.  Those  forces  which  are  the  passions 
of  nature  had  not  used  and  mastered  him  more  com- 
pletely than  had  this  beaten  boy. 

He  felt  that  he  had  been  built  like  a  stone  into 
some  wall  of  defense  raised  by  an  obscure  and  tre- 
mendous fear. 


VII 


Back  among  the  sand-hills,  by  the  winding  channel 
of  a  lagoon,  Sombra  had  a  little  garden. 

By  continually  freeing  it  of  sand,  by  much  carry- 
ing of  marsh  soil  which  the  dry  winds  changed  to 
sand  again,  by  much  watering,  she  had  coaxed  a  few 
ferns  to  root  here;  a  few  stonecrops,  fiery  nastur- 
tiums, blue  lobelias  turning  wild  like  their  fellows 


66  THE  BRIDGE 

of  the  marsh.  It  was  the  sand  itself  that  brought  her 
the  chief  profusion  of  her  garden,  after  all:  huge 
frail  convolvuli,  white  and  pink;  small  grayish- 
white  asters;  silver-leaf  strung  with  golden  blooms. 

She  liked  best  a  small  Scotch  brier-rose  which  Sal 
had  brought  her  from  the  town;  its  flowers  were 
golden  and  honey-sweet.  Since  Maclear  had  told 
her  she  was  like  a  golden  rose  growing  in  the  sand 
she  had  spent  long  minutes  staring  at  this  bush,  won- 
dering why  she  was  like  it,  and  feeling  the  conscious- 
ness of  herself  slowly  flowering  in  her. 

Here,  on  the  day  after  the  herring-run,  Sal  found 
her. 

She  sat  with  her  head  bent,  her  hands  clasping  her 
knees,  looking  into  the  colorless  thin  water  spreading 
at  her  feet,  which  mirrored  her  and  her  garden.  Her 
hair  was  loose,  almost  colorless  too  in  the  great  light, 
for  each  strand  was  iridescent  as  a  spider's  web. 
She  was  crowned  with  a  wreath  of  pink  convolvulus, 
already  drooping  in  the  heat.  Sal  could  not  see  her 
face  in  the  shadow  of  her  hair,  but  he  thought  she 
had  been  crying.  He  stood  watching  her  a  moment, 
unheard.  Then  he  asked,  "Sombra,  why  've  you  got 
your  best  waist  on?" 

She  wore  an  ugly  blouse  of  pink  flannel  trimmed 
with  coarse  crocheted  lace,  and  a  crocheted  lace  col- 
lar fastened  with  a  cheap  brooch.  She  lifted  her 


THE  SAND  67 

head  slowly.  The  glory  of  her  hair  flowed  and  hid 
the  thing.  She  looked  at  Sal  gravely.  At  last  she 
asked,  "Sal,  am  I  beautiful?" 

Her  brother  considered  her;  then  he  glanced  at 
his  own  reflection  in  the  lagoon, — rough  black  head, 
rough  clothes,  one  arm  in  a  sling  of  blue  dusters. 
He  answered  simply,  "There  ain't  no  doubt,  Sombra, 
that  we  're  terr'ble  good-lookin.' ' 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I  've  been  to  town  plenty  of  times  with  Mait. 
The  girls  there  ain't  one  of  them  as  good-lookin'  as 
you." 

She  gloomed  at  him  with  her  great  eyes.  After 
a  moment,  looking  away,  she  asked  slowly:  "Sal, 
would  you  think  I  was  good-lookin'  enough  to  make 
any  one  like  me — just  for  that?" 

"I — guess  so,  Sombra."     Sal  stood  very  still. 

"How  d'  you  know?" 

He  smiled,  his  faint,  obscure  smile.  "I  don't 
know,  of  course.  But  last  time  I  was  waitin'  for 
Mait  by  the  wharves,  a  girl  come  up  to  me  where  I 
was  standin'  under  the  lamp.  She  was  a  pretty  girl. 
I  guess  she  was — a  good  girl.  I  'd  never  seen  her 
before.  I  '11  never  see  her  again.  She  come  up  and 
said,  'I  've  been  follerin'  you  all  the  evenin'  till  I  'd 
courage  to  ask  you  for  somethin'.'  'What 's  that?' 
I  said.  'This,'  said  she,  and  pulled  my  head  down 


68  THE  BRIDGE 

with  her  two  hands;  and  I  kissed  her.  Then  she 
went  away.  I  guess  you  could  have  all  of  that 
sort  you  wanted,  Sombra." 

"Ain't  it  all  one  sort?" 

Sal  waited,  faintly  smiling,  looking  into  the  clear 
water.  At  last  he  asked,  "Why  do  you  want  to  know 
if  you  're  pretty,  Sombra?" 

"Why?     Because  it 's  all  I  have!" 

She  rose  suddenly,  facing  him.  Her  usual  strong 
serenity  was  quite  broken  in  her.  Her  hands  clung 
together,  and  worked  passionately.  Then  she  swept 
her  arms  wide,  and  stood  so,  facing  him.  She  said, 
"Look  at  me! 

"Look  at  me!  Look  at  my  clo'es!"  She  tore  at 
the  pink  flannel  covering  her  heart.  "Look  at  this! 
I  used  to  think  it  was  nice.  Now  I  know  it 's  poor 
and  ugly  and  common — like  us.  Look  at  my 
hands!"  She  held  them  toward  him.  "They  're  all 
spoiled  with  work,  stained  with  potato-peelin', 
scarred  where  the  sand  's  got  into  a  cut,  or  where  the 
frost  hurt  them,  hangin'  out  washin'  in  the  winter. 
Listen  to  me  talk.  I  don't  use  the  right  words,  I 
say  them  wrong;  I  don't  have  time  to  read  or  study. 
What  I  want  to  know's  this:  Am  I — beautiful 
enough  so  as  all  the  rest — won't  matter?" 

"Since,  when  have  you  got  to  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self, Sombra,  and  of  me?" 

In  a  moment  the  passion  died  out  of  her.     Very 


THE  SAND  69 

softly  and  simply  she  went  to  her  brother,  and  hid 
her  face  on  his  shoulder.  She  said,  after  a  little 
time,  "You  know." 

"I  guess  I  do." 

"We-'ve  nothin',  Sal,  we  are  nothin',  but  just 
ourselves." 

"Just  ourselves." 

"And  he — even  in  the  clo'es  he  got  in  the  town 
here  when  most  of  his  things  was  washed  away — 
even  in  them,  he  's — different." 

"Is  he?"  The  boy  was  still  smiling  faintly,  as  he 
gazed  across  her  bent  head  at  the  dunes. 

"It 's  nothin'  he  says  or  does.  He  's  kind,  kind. 
It 's  somethin'  in  me.  Sal,  a  little  while  ago  I  'd 
have  been  terrible  mad  at  him  for  hurtin'  you  last 
night." 

"I  told  you  it  was  my  fault." 

"Yes,  but  it  would  n't  have  made  no  difference, 
then.  Now" — her  voice  sank  to  a  breath  he  could 
scarcely  hear — "it  don't  seem  he  could  do  anything 
wrong  in  my  eyes." 

Sal  waited,  something  kindling  behind  his  dark 
reserve.  At  last  he  moved.  It  was  to  thrust  the 
girl  away.  He  said,  "Is  it  like  that  with  you!" 

She  shrank  a  little.  Sal  had  never  turned  his 
fierce  look  on  her  before.  He  faced  her  like  an  ad- 
versary. His  words  came  like  stones. 

"You  want  to  know  if  you  "re  beautiful  enough? 


70  THE  BRIDGE 

You  got  to  go  with  Mail  to  town  to-morrow.  Walk 
down  Center  Street  in  the  evenin'.  Any  man's 
looks  '11  tell  you  what  you  wanter  know." 

"Sal—"   ' 

"Well?  You  wanter  be  told  how  beautiful  you 
are?"  He  caught  her  wrist  savagely.  "You  're  beau- 
tiful enough  to  make  him  sell  his  soul  for  you  in  a 
little  while — if  you  'd  like  it  that  way — Sombra — ?" 

There  seemed  a  sort  of  fire  between  them  as  they 
stood  there,  so  like,  so  passionate,  mutely  question- 
ing each  other.  Then  the  red  flamed  in  the  girl's 
face.  Her  eyes  darkened.  She  jerked  herself  free. 
Once  or  twice  she  tried  to  speak  before  the  words 


came: 

M 


I  won't  have  it  that  way!" 

She  tore  the  wreath  from  her  head,  the  lace  collar 
from  her  neck,  and  threw  them  away  together.  Her 
hair  she  swept  into  a  rope,  twisted  it,  strained  it 
back  from  her  face,  and  pinned  it  close.  Her  hands 
trembled.  She  paused.  Sal  said  softly,  "You  're 
beautiful  yet,  Sombra." 

"Then  I  '11  be  beautiful  no  more!" 

There  was  a  broken  clam-shell  in  the  sand  at  their 
feet,  sharp  as  a  knife.  She  caught  the  shell  in  her 
hand,  and  gashed  her  own  face  with  it, — a  deep 
grotesque  scratch,  broadening  into  crimson. 

After  a  moment  Sal  gently  took  the  shell  away 


THE  SAND  71 

from  her  and  threw  it  into  the  lagoon.  She  did  not 
resist  him.  She  was  very  still. 

He  asked  quietly,  "Are  you  goin'  to  town  like 
that?" 

"I  'm  goin'  to  town  like  this.  I  'm  goin'  to  let 
every  one  see  me  like  this.  What  does  that  matter? 
I  'm  going  to  let  him  see  me  like  this,  without  even 
the  one  thing  I  have!" 

Sal,  smiling  faintly,  stood  out  of  her  way.  She 
moved  past  him  royally,  the  blood  spreading  un- 
stanched  on  her  pale  face. 

She  was  beautiful  then,  with  some  fire  and  force 
of  the  spirit,  as  she  had  not  been  before. 

When  she  was  gone,  Sal  sat  in  the  sand,  motionless, 
his  head  on  his  knees.  He  stayed  a  long  time. 


VIII 


Maclear  was  watching  a  cloud. 

When  first  it  appeared  above  the  heat  haze  on  the 
horizon,  he  had  thought  it  a  sail. 

With  a  silence  that  appeared  unnatural,  this  cloud 
had  risen  and  towered  throughout  the  morning, 
which  had  been  one  of  great  warmth  and  stillness. 
The  sand  burned.  Over  the  dunes  the  air  quivered. 
The  mirage  lifted  the  base  of  the  cloud  above  the 
lake  in  a  perfectly  level  foundation,  upon  which  va- 


72  THE  BRIDGE 

pors  slowly  piled  and  builded  themselves  pyrami- 
dally, with  an  inner  revolving  motion;  until  the  vast 
cone  filled  the  dull  sky  to  the  zenith,  and  gathered 
all  the  light  to  itself,  and  was  reflected  like  a  moun- 
tain peak  of  pale  rose  and  gold  in  the  lake  below. 
Besides  the  inner  revolution,  the  whole  mass  had  a 
motion  of  advance.  Maclear  thought  he  had  never 
seen  so  lovely  a  thing. 

It  had  not  been  visible  when,  a  few  hours  earlier, 
he  had  helped  Sombra  launch  the  heavy  old  boat  in 
which  she  was  going  with  Mait  to  the  town  on  the 
mainland.  He  had  carried  down  a  dozen  little  toy 
vessels  for  her,  and  helped  her  stow  them  away,  with 
such  other  odds  and  ends  as  they  were  taking.  She 
had  scarcely  spoken  to  him.  For  him  her  eyes  were 
veiled;  he  saw  them  heavy  as  though  with  weeping, 
and  wondered  at  that,  and  at  the  scar.  Her  face 
was  pale,  weary  and  spiritless;  in  the  gray  glare  it 
seemed  to  have  little  beauty,  that  any  one  should 
desire  it. 

In  this  she  had  her  will. 

In  nothing  else.  Maclear  watched  the  old  boat 
passing  down  the  lagoon  to  the  open  lake;  saw  Som- 
bra ship  her  oars  and  Mait  rise  and  set  the  patched 
sail  as  if  he  could  see.  A  faint  hot  wind  filled  the 
canvas;  the  boat  drifted  toward  the  haze,  was  pres- 
ently lost  there,  that  pale  face,  crossed  with  the  red 
scar,  the  last  thing  that  glimmered  back  upon  Mac- 


THE  SAND  73 

lear.  And  Sombra  had  never  seemed  to  him  so 
unendurably  dear. 

He  had  added  an  errand  of  his  own  to  those  that 
normally  occupied  her  when  she  went  to  town. 

He  had  the  fancy  to  take  her  sailing  in  the  eve- 
nings, when  the  shore-larks  twittered  along  the  la- 
goons, and  there  would  be  dew  on  the  canvas,  and 
great  stars  waiting  for  them  out  on  the  open  lake. 
He  wanted  to  see  her  face  under  the  stars.  And  on 
the  single  occasion  when  he  had  gone  to  the  town  him- 
self, he  had  ordered  a  skiff  at  the  boat-building  yard 
beside  the  flour-mills.  This  skiff  would  now  be  fin- 
ished. And  he  had  asked  Sombra  to  bring  it  back 
with  her;  it  would  tow  easily  behind  the  larger  boat. 

He  had  spent  most  of  the  morning  building  a 
rough  penthouse  shelter  for  the  skiff,  among  the 
fringed  gentians  which  colored  the  marsh  meadows 
for  acres  with  their  dark,  pellucid  sapphire  along  the 
lagoon.  The  marshes  exhaled  a  strong  sour-sweet 
smell.  On  the  beach  of  the  lagoon  a  migrating  col- 
umn of  great  red  butterflies  had  paused  to  rest;  they 
remained  there  without  motion,  their  wings  erect  and 
shut ;  it  was  as  though  the  sand  were  covered  with  the 
numberless  tiny  tents  of  an  army. 

In  the  afternoon  Maclear  watched  the  cloud. 

Later  he  saw  Sal  standing  on  a  high  dune,  also 
watching  it. 

The  island  remained  singularly  voiceless,  empty, 


74  THE  BRIDGE 

without  stir  of  any  life,  throughout  the  day.  Mac- 
lear  thought  it  was  because  Sombra  was  away.  He 
began  to  wonder  when  she  would  return. 

Toward  evening,  and  the  cloud  usurping  the 
whole  heaven,  he  saw  Salvator  come  from  the  dunes, 
carrying  a  load  of  driftwood  on  his  unhurt  arm. 
He  laid  this  on  the  lake  beach,  anJ  went  back  heavily, 
it  seemed  for  more  wood.  Maclear  went  toward  him. 

As  the  cloud  had 'drawn  all  light  to  itself,  so  now 
it  seemed  to  have  absorbed  the  air.  When  Maclear 
reached  the  pile  of  driftwood,  he  drew  his  breath 
quickly,  and  his  clothing  clung  to  his  damp  body. 

Sal  had  just  laid  the  fourth  load  on  the  heap,  and 
now  stood  beside  it.  His  face  was  raised  to  the 
cloud,  and  the  reflected  light  made  it  luminous,  still, 
unearthly.  Then  he  lifted  his  right  hand,  and  struck, 
passionately  and  in  silence,  at  his  bruised  shoulder. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Maclear,  quickly. 

"I  should  n't  have  let  her  go  alone  with  Mail. 
But  I  thought  the  weather  would  keep  fair." 

"Is  there  a  storm  coming?" 

Sal  did  not  answer.  He  still  struck,  softly,  cease- 
lessly, at  his  own  injury,  which  had  kept  him  on  the 
island  and  sent  Sombra  to  the  town  in  his  place. 
After  a  minute  the  action  became  intolerable  to  Mac- 
lear. He  laid  his  own  hand  on  the  boy's,  and  stilled 
it;  he  asked,  "Is  it  the  storm  you  are  afraid  of?" 

"You  know  how  Mait  is  in  a  storm." 


THE  SAND  75 

Yes.  Maclear  knew.  A  vision  flashed  before  him, 
— a  vision  of  Sombra  crouching  in  the  stern  of  the 
boat,  while  the  old  man  moved  down  upon  her,  with 
outstretched  groping  hand  and  murder  in  his  face, 
as  he  had  moved  down  upon  Maclear  that  night  in 
the  quiet  kitchen.  The  heat  and  silence  muffled 
speech  like  wool  laid  on  the  lips.  In  a  minute  he 
said,  "They  will  see  the  storm  coming,  and  wait." 

"Mait  will  not  see  it — " 

As  though  words  were  futile,  Sal's  voice  trailed 
to  silence.  In  the  sand  beside  him,  Maclear  stood 
like  a  man  half-stunned.  Fear  had  come  so  sud- 
denly. 

The  great  glowing  cloud  curled  slowly,  a  crest 
running  for  miles,  the  ethereal  foam  of  a  wave. 

Maclear  asked,  "Why  are  you  gathering  wood?" 

"It  '11  be  dark  when  they  get  back.  There  's  no 
light.  Maybe  they  will  need  help  to  make  a  land- 
ing." 

"The  storm  may  not  break." 

Maclear  knew  the  deadly  suddenness  of  the  lakes, 
but  he  could  not  believe  that  any  danger  could  come 
from  the  cloud,  now  threading  here  and  there  into 
thin  wisps  which  seemed  the  only  real  clouds,  blow- 
ing from  the  height  of  a  bright,  uplifted  hill. 

Sal  did  not  reply.  He  went  slowly  away  to  fetch 
more  wood. 

After  a  while  Maclear  stirred  and  sighed.     He 


76  THE  BRIDGE 

told  himself  there  was  nothing  to  fear — yet.  He, 
too,  dragged  himself  away  to  look  for  wood.  There 
was  nothing  else  to  do.  There  was  not  another 
boat  on  the  island. 

He  dragged  at  a  bleached  log,  long  buried  in  drift 
sand.  He  dug  it  free  with  his  hands.  The  sand 
cut  his  fingers  like  glass;  they  were  bleeding  when  he 
cleared  the  log  and  found  it  too  sodden  to  burn. 
Looking  at  his  bleeding  fingers,  he  told  himself  again 
that  he  was  afraid  of  a  shadow. 

Salvator  passed  him,  walking  heavily  in  the  sand, 
carrying  a  load  of  blanched  willow  roots.  Maclear 
called  to  him:  "This  stuff  is  all  too  wet." 

"There  's  none  better." 

"There  's  all  Morning  House." 

They  turned  together  and  ran  to  the  house,  which 
fronted  them  like  the  skull  of  a  past  life,  with  multi- 
ple blank  eyeholes.  It  looked  withered  and  dried 
in  the  glare,  as  though  at  any  moment  it  might  of  it- 
self break  into  flame. 

As  men  move  in  dreams,  so  they  seemed  to  move, 
with  enormous  effort.  As  they  would  have  done  in  a 
dream,  they  laid  hold  of  the  posts  of  the  veranda 
and  wrenched  them  away  in  their  hands.  Showers 
of  slats  and  shingles  tilted  almost  silently  into  the 
sand,  leaving  the  gaunt  corner  of  some  room  naked 
to  the  light.  They  toiled  on  in  the  heat  and  oppres- 
sion, tearing  away  and  carrying  to  the  beach  boards, 


THE  SAND  77 

laths,  the  sun-rotted  sashes  of  glassless  windows,  the 
railings  of  untrodden  stairs.  There  was  something 
monstrous,  out  of  nature,  in  the  manner  in  which 
Morning  House  yielded  itself  to  destruction;  it  ap- 
peared to  destroy  itself. 

The  pile  on  the  beach  rose  high  as  the  day  dark- 
ened, and  the  cloud  turned  leaden,  and  the  lake  took 
on  a  milky  hue.  The  work  and  the  dream-like  dis- 
gust of  it — in  that  they  seemed  to  be  feeding  their 
pyre  with  something  that  had  once  lived  and  was  now 
dead — tired  their  minds  as  well  as  their  bodies. 

Maclear  told  himself  that  there  was  nothing  to 
fear.  He  knew  that  if  necessary  they  could  fire 
Morning  House  itself,  and  he  thought  how  the  flame 
would  spread  and  feed  on  it,  and  run  to  the  willow 
thickets  and  the  poplars,  till  all  the  island  was  a  con- 
suming torch  to  light  Sombra  home. 

They  rested  a  little.  The  storm  had  not  broken. 
Once  or  twice  they  were  aware  of  distant  thunder, 
more  as  a  tremor  of  the  atmosphere  than  as  a  sound. 
Sal  said,  "I  am  goin'  to  light  the  fire  soon." 

That  was  the  first  time  either  had  spoken  for  an 
hour. 

They  waited  a  little  longer.  Then  Sail  lighted 
the  pile. 

The  kindling  flame  fed  eagerly  on  the  shavings, 
the  dried  grass,  the  lesser  twigs;  leapt  immediately, 
and  seized  on  those  sun-rotted  boards.  As  if  the 


78  THE  BRIDGE 

outer  fire  released  some  terrible  energy  within  itself, 
the  stuff  of  Morning  House  sprang  into  flame,  roared, 
and  was  consumed  in  a  breath.  And  as  if  fire  an- 
swered to  fire,  from  the  depth  of  the  cloud  a  cloth  of 
flame  seemed  suddenly  lowered  and  caught  back.  In 
the  darkness  after  the  lightning  their  fire  lighted  the 
dunes,  the  lake,  the  cloud  itself.  They  saw  they 
must  bring  more  fuel. 

They  went  to  and  fro  under  the  cloud,  working  in 
a  narrowing  world  that  seemed  all  on  fire. 

They  rested  again,  without  the  intolerable  circle 
of  heat.  There  was  another  flash  of  lightning. 
Maclear  asked,  "Do  you  see  anything  of  the  boat 
yet?" 

Sal  was  standing  out  on  the  ledge,  to  his  knees  in 
the  glassy  water.  He  answered :  "No.  But  here  's 
the  first  wind." 

A  white  line,  like  a  line  of  mist,  was  running 
shoreward  under  the  cloud.  Maclear  saw  this  first 
gust,  compact  in  itself  as  a  thrown  stone,  strike  the 
boy  before  he  himself  felt  it.  Then  he  was  blinded 
a  moment  with  wind  and  spray.  The  gust  passed, 
moaning,  inland.  In  the  following  silence  he  heard 
it  break  on  Morning  House  like  a  wave. 

Their  fire,  which  had  been  beaten  down  and  blown 
into  flying  rags  of  flame,  sprang  erect. 

Another  blaze  of  pallid  lightning  showed  them  the 
convolutions  of  the  cloud  rigid  as  iron  above,  trail- 


THE  SAND  79 

ing  milky  skirts  of  vapor.  From  this  vapor  another 
white  line  broke  glimmering  and  rushed  toward 
them.  Maclear  was  out  on  the  ledge  now  with  Sal. 
The  second  gust  struck  them  together;  foam  broke 
suddenly  to  their  waists.  Sal  clung  to  Maclear. 
His  voice  came  like  the  crying  of  a  gull: 

"I  think  I  saw  the  boat." 

Both  waited  for  the  next  flash.  In  it  they  saw 
something  small  and  dark  far  out  on  the  lake,  flying 
on  the  face  of  the  rushing  vapor  like  a  bird.  A 
wave,  cold  as  ice,  crashed  on  the  island,  broke  on  Sal 
to  the  breast;  Maclear  caught  him,  and  drew  him 
back  to  the  beach.  The  boy  said,  "That  was  the 
boat." 

"What  will  it  be  best  to  do?" 

"There 's  nothing  much  we  can  do.  They  're 
racin'  the  storm.  Me,  I  think  the  storm  and  the 
boat  will  about  strike  on  the  island  together. 
They  '11  beach  the  boat.  No  time  for  anything  else. 
When  she  strikes,  run  in  and  haul  her  up." 

Maclear  nodded,  his  eyes  straining  to  find  and 
hold  that  faint  flying  speck  where  Sombra  was  com- 
ing to  him. 

In  that  moment  his  doubts  and  his  hesitations 
passed.  This  was  his  appointed  time,  his  day  of 
salvation. 

He  knew  that  this  untaught  girl,  blown  toward  him 
on  the  face  of  the  storm,  was  alike  his  only  weapon 


80  THE  BRIDGE 

and  his  only  refuge;  that  only  in  the  shelter  of  her 
unquestioning  love  would  he  be  able  to  live;  that 
only  if  armed  at  all  points  with  her  trust  would  he 
be  strong  to  meet  the  betraying  thing.  She  was  his 
rock;  lacking  her,  his  life  would  go  down  in  sand. 

If  the  knowledge,  come  to  him  thus  clearly  and 
immediately,  was  in  itself  defeat,  he  did  not  see  it  so. 
It  was  at  least  the  measure  of  his  passion,  of  its 
power,  of  its  necessity, — that  passion  rooted  in  need; 
to  him  it  seemed  an  exquisite  fulfilment. 

He  was  lifted  in  a  kind  of  exaltation.  He  could 
see  the  boat  plainly  now,  flying  down  upon  the  island. 
Thunder,  the  noise  of  the  waves,  in  his  mood  seemed 
only  the  great  music,  as  of  gates  lifted  up  and  the 
fountains  of  the  deep,  that  companied  his  love,  com- 
ing home. 

The  boat  came  nearer.  Behind  it  everything  was 
lost  in  a  terrible  misty  smother,  a  dissolution  of  air 
and  water,  one  with  the  other.  They  stood  ready 
to  seize  the  boat  when  she  struck  the  beach.  Maclear 
had  never  felt  so  calm;  never  so  strong. 

Nearer  she  staggered  under  a  terrible  press  of 
sail;  nearer.  Mail  was  at  the  tiller.  Maclear  saw 
Sombra  crouched  forward.  He  smiled.  As  though 
he  could  see,  Mail  was  holding  the  boat  straight  on 
the  line  of  their  fire;  she  fled  toward  them  on  a  crim- 
son path;  steep  waves  began  to  overtake  her;  those 
two  waiting  on  the  beach  were  blown  now,  stung  with 


THE  SAND  81 

spray,  blinded  with  level  rain.  Maclear  was  no 
longer  afraid.  She  was  there. 

"Now!"  cried  Salvator  in  his  ear. 

They  leapt  into  the  foam  together. 

The  boat  came  down  upon  them.  For  a  moment 
she  was  flung  upward,  tossed  to  heaven;  then  she 
rushed  toward  them  on  a  sliding  hillock  of  foam, 
hung,  hesitated,  took  the  sand,  reeled  on  again. 
She  struck,  heeling  far  over.  They  thought  she 
would  go  to  pieces  under  their  eyes.  The  blind  man 
had  not  shortened  sail,  and  mast  and  sail  seemed  to 
melt  away  into  the  wind;  for  at  that  moment  the 
weight  of  the  storm  struck  also.  There  was  no  other 
sound  to  be  heard.  Maclear  and  Salvator  ran  in 
and  seized  the  thwarts,  heaving  and  straining  against 
the  grip  of  the  sand. 

They  had  her  up  in  the  thinner  surf  after  a  sharp 
fight.  Thinking  only  of  Sombra,  Maclear  leapt  into 
the  boat  and  stooped  over  that  crouching  shape  in  the 
bows. 

Coats,  canvas,  tarpaulins, — these  things  were  in 
his  hands,  and  he  cast  them  away.  They  fell  to  a 
horrible  vacancy.  There  was  no  one  there. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  boat  but  Mait. 

Maclear  searched  like  a  madman.  Sal  was  with 
him.  Sal  lifted  a  broken  rope  from  the  stern  and 
showed  him  the  end,  trailing  in  the  water.  Maclear 
could  not  hear  what  those  white  lips  said  to  him  for 


82  THE  BRIDGE 

the  drive  of  the  rain  and  the  spray.  But  he  was  in- 
stantly still,  seeing  the  whole  thing. 

Somhra  must  have  been  in  the  skiff  towing  astern, 
that  her  weight  might  prevent  the  light  boat  over- 
riding the  heavy  one.  Mait  could  sail  a  boat  by  the 
feel  of  wind  and  tiller  and  the  sound  of  the 
waves.  But  why  had  he  not  taken  her  aboard? 
When  had  he  lost  her?  When  had  the  rope  parted? 
Mait  was  slowly  climbing  the  beach,  and  Maclear, 
numb  and  motionless  himself,  saw  the  boy  run  to  the 
old  man,  and  heard  those  wild  questions  with  his 
soul,  not  his  bodily  sense.  He  saw  Sal  clinging  to 
Mait,  crying  to  him  with  a  dreadful  beseeching. 
But  Mait  struck  him  out  of  the  way  and  strode  on, 
silent.  Sal  lay  where  he  had  fallen  in  the  surf  and 
the  running  shingle,  beating  at  the  stones  with  his 
hands. 

So  much  Maclear  saw.  A  horror  was  on  him. 
He  did  not  go  to  Salvator.  He  leapt  from  the  water- 
logged boat  and  ran  from  that  place,  stumbling. 
Again,  his  foothold  in  life  was  swept  from  him,  he 
was  blown  like  a  grain  of  sand  in  the  senseless  ruin 
of  events.  Once  more  he  was  shelterless.  He  had 
lost  her. 

Behind  him,  the  fire  he  and  Salvator  had  built — 
the  fire  to  guide  her  home — sank  and  was  quenched 
by  the  spray. 


THE  SAND  83 

IX 

The  storm  had  long  been  past. 

For  hours  the  islarid  had  lain  under  a  sky  cleared 
of  all  but  a  few  clouds  of  a  dove-like  whiteness,  si- 
lent save  for  the  solemn  thunder  of  the  waves  along 
all  its  beaches ;  the  wet  sands  shimmered  in  the  moon- 
light like  pearl. 

For  hours  Maclear  had  paced  these  beaches,  look- 
ing for  what  any  wave  might  leave  there. 

He  remembered  nothing  of  those  hours. 

He  was  drenched  and  very  cold,  his  clothing  torn, 
his  body  bruised.  He  did  not  know  how  he  had  come 
to  be  so.  He  was  conscious  neither  of  his  exhaus- 
tion nor  of  his  despair.  He  had  simply  ceased  to 
feel.  He  was  aware  of  nothing,  except  the  resolve 
that  he  would  not  survive  Sombra. 

With  this  last  Judas-kiss  of  life,  when  she  had  been 
taken  from  him  at  the  moment  he  realized  his  su- 
preme need  of  her,  no  compromise  was  possible. 

He  thought  of  nothing  but  this.  When  Salvator 
found  him  in  the  night,  and  spoke  to  him,  brokenly 
and  with  tears,  and  walked  beside  him  in  his  endless 
pacing  of  the  sands,  he  hardly  knew  it. 

Now  the  night  was  drawing  toward  dawn.  Sal 
had  left  him.  He  was  alone. 

He  stood  on  a  low  promontory,  a  spur  of  sand 
thrust  out  into  the  melancholy  thunder  of  the  surf. 


84  THE  BRIDGE 

He  was  waiting;  waiting  only  to  find  her,  and  then 
to  follow  her  where  she  had  gone. 

Even  before  the  stars  paled  the  lake  told  him  of 
the  approach  of  dawn;  it  grew  a  little  luminous,  as 
though  light  were  born  in  it,  far  down  beneath  the 
surface.  Ij>y  imperceptible  gradations  the  deep 
water  was  colored  with  blue,  the  shallows  with  green. 
The  moon  had  set  long  ago. 

Maclear  waited  for  the  last  dawn  he  would  ever 
see. 

Light  came  suddenly  at  last,  and  long  before  the 
sun.  As  though  veils  had  been  torn  away,  he 
stood  on  the  low  sandy  promontory  and  gazed  east- 
ward across  the  tumbling  ridges  of  blue  and  white 
to  where,  beyond  the  shallows,  something  dark  rolled 
in  the  trough  of  the  wave. 

In  a  minute  he  saw  that  it  was  a  small  boat, 
nearly  awash. 

Maclear  began  to  tremble.  He  went  down  the 
slope  of  sand  to  the  beach.  From  here  he  could  not 
see  the  boat  for  a  little  while.  Then  it  lifted  on  a 
higher  wave.  Water-logged,  it  drifted  very  slowly 
shoreward, — lost  repeatedly  in  the  shadowy  hollows, 
visible  again  against  the  running  foam, — toward  the 
spot  where  they  had  built  the  fire. 

Maclear  waded  toward  it  through  the  surf,  which 
was  still  strong.  So  slowly  the  waves  shouldered  the 
skiff  to  land  that  presently  he  was  swimming  heavily. 


THE  SAND  85 

He  had  no  doubt  at  all  that  this  was  the  skiff  he  had 
asked  Sombra  to  bring  back  for  him,  nor  that  he 
should  find  her  in  it.  Nor  had  he  any  hope  at  all 
that  he  should  find  her  living. 

He  swam  out  in  the  colorless  twilight.  An  un- 
earthly purity  rested  on  everything.  The  last  stars 
were  withdrawn. 

When  he  reached  the  boat  he  was  too  weak  even 
to  raise  himself  and  look  into  it,  low  as  it  lay  in  the 
water.  He  could  only  float  with  it  to  shore,  shoul- 
dered in  by  the  waves.  Even  when  it  had  taken  the 
sand,  he  could  do  no  more  for  a  while  than  rest  be- 
side it,  holding  to  it  with  his  hands. 

Then  he  drew  himself  erect,  and  looked. 

She  lay  as  he  had  known  she  would  lie,  with  her 
head  on  a  seat,  and  her  black  hair  floating  in  the 
water  which  more  than  half  filled  the  pretty  little 
varnished  boat.  Her  face,  pale  as  pearl,  seemed 
purely  asleep;  across  it  the  cut  showed  darkly.  Her 
hands  stirred  in  the  water  as  the  skiff  shifted  on  its 
keel  under  Maclear's  hands. 

He  stooped,  took  her  in  his  arms.  Her  head  fell 
slackly  on  his  shoulder,  the  water  rained  from  her 
hair,  her  clinging  clothes.  He  carried  her  away 
from  the  boat  and  laid  her  gently  on  the  beach. 
Spent  as  he  was,  somehow  he  did  not  feel  that  weight. 
He  knelt  beside  her,  with  no  thought,  looking  at  her 
face. 


86  THE  BRIDGE 

Greatly  as  she  would  have  given  to  him  in  every- 
thing, she  could  give  nothing  now,  not  even  a  look. 
He  would  have  taken  all  she  had  to  give.  Now,  as 
she  could  not  give,  he  would  not  take  even  so  much 
as  a  touch  of  her  beloved  cold  lips. 

He  took  his  wet  coat  and  rolled  it  clumsily  into  a 
pillow  to  keep  her  head  from  the  sand.  He  straight- 
ened her  limbs,  her  dress ;  gathered  her  cold  wet  hair 
neatly  on  each  side  of  her  face.  He  remembered 
how  warm  it  had  been  that  day  he  kissed  it  in  the 
sun.  He  might  have  spoken  then,  when  she  was 
looking  at  him  with  her  soft,  surrendered  eyes ;  when 
she  was  alive,  and  near.  Now  she  was  gone  so  far 
she  would  never  hear,  though  he  cried  to  her  all  day, 
— like  this, — "I  love  you,  Sombra!  I  love  you!" 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms,  crushed  her  sweet  un- 
responsive face  to  his  heart,  told  her  again  and  again. 
Too  late. 

He  rose  at  last,  still  holding  her,  staring  out  to 
the  deep  water,  where  light  was  coming  to  birth.  He 
took  a  step  toward  the  lake,  carrying  her.  A  dark 
pressure  and  obscurity  was  on  his  mind.  He  saw  the 
world  like  a  dream  on  the  edge  of  reality,  receding. 
With  the  foam  about  his  feet,  he  went  slowly  toward 
the  deep  water,  carrying  her. 

Then  he  stopped,  aware  for  the  first  time  of  hands 
that  clung  to  him,  of  a  haggard  face  turned  to  his 
own,  of  beseeching  words. 


THE  SAND  87 

He  asked  gently,  "What  is  it,  Sal?" 

"I  been  tryin'  to  make  you  listen  these  five  min- 
utes. Oh,  put  her  down!  give  her  to  me!  She  ain't 
drowned.  It 's  the  cold  and  the  wet.  She  ain't 
dead!" 

Maclear  listened,  shook  his  head;  the  words 
seemed  to  have  no  meaning.  He  went  a  little  deeper 
into  the  surf  with  his  burden. 

"Mr.  Maclear!  Alan,  for  God's  sake,  listen! 
You  love  her.  So  do  I.  Give  her  to  me.  I  won't 
hurt  her.  I  tell  you  she  's  alive!" 

"What  do  you  say?" 

"Alan,  I  tell  you  she's  alive!" 

Maclear  began  to  tremble  again.  Something  was 
here  greater  than  he  could  endure, — hope.  He  al- 
lowed Sal  to  take  Sombra  from  him  and  lay  her 
again  on  the  beach.  He  stammered:  "Take  her. 
But  give  her  back  to  me." 

"By  God,  I  will!" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  her,  Sal?" 

The  boy  turned  on  him  a  face  of  white  life:  "The 
stove 's  out  long  ago  at  home.  There 's  just  one 
thing  on  the  island  with  warmth  in  it, — the  sand 
where  we  had  our  fire.  I  'm  goin'  to  warm  her  in  the 
sand."  He  laid  hold  of  the  sleeves  of  Sombra's 
clinging  blouse,  and  rent  them  from  shoulder  to 
wrist.  He  said  to  Maclear:  "Go  and  clear  the  em- 
bers away.  You  can't  help  me  in  this." 


88  THE  BRIDGE 

Maclear  went  unsteadily  to  the  circle  of  blackened 
wood  coals  on  the  beach.  He  cleared  them  aside 
with  his  hands.  Here  and  there  a  smoldering  core 
of  heat  was  left  to  scorch  him,  but  he  did  not  feel 
it.  The  sand  beneath  was  still  hot. 

He  called  to  Sal,  "What  else  shall  I  do?" 

"Dig  a  hole  in  the  sand.  Not  too  deep.  As 
though  you  was  diggin'  a  grave." 

Maclear  stooped  and  dug  desperately,  making  a 
long,  shallow  depression  in  the  sand,  like  the  begin- 
ning of  a  grave. 

"You  got  that  done,  Alan?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maclear,  and  stood  away,  looking  out 
toward  the  growing  day. 

He  did  not  look  when  the  boy  passed  him,  carry- 
ing, sheltered  in  his  coat,  that  shape  no  whiter  than 
his  own  face.  He  did  not  turn  when  Sal  laid  Som- 
bra  in  the  trench  and  heaped  the  sand  above  her, 
till  she  was  buried  from  throat  to  feet  in  the  warm 
dust.  He  waited,  seeing  only  the  dawn. 

He  did  not  know  if  the  dawn  brought  death  or  life. 

A  supreme  stillness  held  all  life  in  suspension. 
It  hovered  between  two  worlds,  as  the  light  hovered 
there  on  the  horizon,  half  minded  to  take  wing. 
Along  all  the  marshes  of  the  island  not  a  leaf  was 
moved;  yet  glittering  with  rain  and  cold  spray,  the 
small  flowers  were  lifeless  and  still  as  jewels;  in 
Sombra's  garden,  her  yellow  rose  held  only  a  few 


THE  SAND  89 

chill  petals,  close-sleeked  like  the  wings  of  the  moths 
that  clung  to  it. 

All  being  was  like  a  great  clean-swept  shell,  in 
which  nothing  had  life  but  the  hollow  and  solemn 
sound  of  the  waves. 

The  sun  had  not  yet  risen.  But  far  overhead 
Maclear  saw  a  single  fleck  of  highest  cloud  glow 
suddenly  like  a  star.  And  from  the  heart  of  that 
brightness,  drawn  along  the  east  behind  the  hard  sap- 
phired  ridges  of  the  waves,  one  white  bird  was  fly- 
ing to  the  shore. 

As  he  waited,  the  sky,  the  waste  of  water,  the  soli- 
tary bird  returning  between  them,  became  a  thing 
mingled  and  woven  forever  with  his  existence. 

Sal  came  quietly  to  his  side.  The  boy's  face  was 
wet  with  tears.  He  put  his  arm  about  Maclear's 
neck.  He  said  gently,  "Alan,  come  to  her/' 

Maclear  could  not  stir  for  a  moment;  he  had 
traveled  too  far  in  that  stillness.  He  saw  the  white 
bird  wheel  above  the  surf  and  descend  to  it  surely, 
and  rest. 

"Come  and  speak  to  her,  Alan." 

"Is  she—?" 

"She  's  safe.     She  's  alive." 

After  a  moment  Maclear  turned,  drew  Sal  toward 
him,  lightly  brushed  the  black  head  with  his  lips. 
His  own  face  was  wet.  He  did  not  remember  that  he 
had  wept.  He  said:  "Sal,  what  I  have  to  say  to 


90  THE  BRIDGE 

Sombra  I  can't  say  even  before  you,  who  have 
brought  her  back  to  me.  Will  you  leave  her  alone 
with  me  a  very  little  while?" 

**Yes.  I  must  go  to  the  house  and  kindle  the 
stove  and  bring  a  blanket  or  somethin'.  I  won't  be 
long.  I  '11  come  back  for  you.*'  But  he  lingered  a 
minute,  looking  at  Maclear  wistfully. 

"She 's  yours,  SaL  Trust  me  to  keep  her  for 
you, — a  little  while." 

"I  guess  she's  not  mine  any  more,"  said  Sal, 
softly. 

He  went  away.  Maclear  turned  and  sank  on  his 
knees  beside  Sombra.  He  did  not  speak  at  first. 
He  wanted  nothing  but  to  look  at  her  face  and  be  as- 
sured of  the  life  there. 

She  looked  at  him  also  in  that  silence,  with  the 
searching,  questioning  expression  of  one  who  has 
been  far  from  life  for  a  little  while,  and  finds  some 
new  quality  in  the  things  of  life  on  her  return.  At 
last,  seeing  how  he  had  suffered  for  her,  she  stirred  a 
little  under  her  sandy  covering,  and  stretched  to  him 
her  hand,  glittering  with  the  stuff  that  had  saved  her. 

He  took  it  in  his,  raised  it  to  his  lips.  He  could 
only  say,  "My  dear  love." 

She  drew  him  weakly  toward  her,  saying,  "Kiss 
me,  Alan." 

There  was  no  joy  in  her  voice,  but  a  solemn  and 
meek  acceptance.  She  seemed  to  say,  Be  it  unto 


THE  SAND  91 

me  according  to  thy  word.  As  his  lips  touched  hers, 
she  whispered:  "I'm  glad — glad — that  I'm  to  see 
you  again.  There,  in  the  boat,  I  thought  of  you." 

Maclear  remembered  how  nearly  that  rich  voice 
with  its  homely  speech  had  been  lost  forever  in  si- 
lence. He  said,  "I  love  you,  Sombra." 

"I  love  you,  Alan.  I've  loved  you  all  the  time. 
It  seems  there  never  was  a  time  before  I  loved  you, 
But  it  ain't  right  I  should.  I  *m  not  fit  for  you." 

"Sombra — your  eyes  are  full  of  tears.  Let 
me  wipe  them  for  you." 

She  smiled  at  him.  He  wiped  her  eyes,  and  she 
laughed  a  small,  faint  laugh  at  her  own  helplessness. 
She  said:  "Will  you  lift  my  head  a  little?  The 
sand  's  heavy,  though  it 's  lovely  and  warm.  It  was 
so  cold  in  the  boat," 

Not  trusting  himself  to  speak,  he  raised  her  head 
on  his  hand,  let  it  lie  there.  The  trembling  of  that 
hand  communicated  some  shadowy  trouble  to  her 
returning  life.  She  whispered  to  him:  "It's  good 
— to  have  you  near.  But  if  I  done  right,  I  would 
send  you  away  from  me — never  see  you  no  more." 

He  looked  at  her  sternly.  The  passion  of  his  need 
rose  in  him, — hard,  clear  as  a  flame.  The  receding 
waves  had  left  on  the  beach  a  clam-shell,  brimmed 
with  water,  and  large  enough  to  hold  all  night  the 
images  of  a  few  stars.  Now  the  stars  were  gone. 
As  he  looked  he  saw  the  water  rosed  and  transfused 


92  THE  BRIDGE 

into  wine,  the  miracle  of  the  full  dawn  made  mani- 
fest in  that  narrow  cup. 

He  lifted  the  blue  oval  to  her  lips  and  said, 
"Drink." 

She  sipped  from  it,  her  large  grave  eyes  on  his, — 
wondering.  When  she  had  drunk,  he  too  drank  of 
that  cold,  pure  water.  Words  were  in  his  mind: 
"Water  of  life,  clear  as  crystal."  They  two  should 
drink  of  the  water  of  life  in  one  sacrament. 

He  said  to  her,  faintly  smiling:  "It's  a  charm. 
Nothing  can  part  us  now." 

The  sky,  the  sand,  the  foam,  the  shell  in  his  hand, 
burned  ineffably  into  thin  gold.  The  sun  had  risen. 

Sombra  was  silent.  Behind  them,  in  the  poplar 
thickets,  a  shore-lark  began  his  silvery  roving  song. 


II 

THE  MIST 


MACLEAR  stood  on  the  long  wharf  beyond  the 
flour-mills  which  were  the  small  town's  reason 
for  being.  A  steamer  was  coming  in  from  one  of 
the  lake  ports  lower  down;  as  he  was  idle,  he  waited 
to  see  her  arrive.  A  small  crowd  of  people  were 
waiting,  too,  perhaps  with  better  reason.  Many  of 
these  people  forgot  the  nearing  ship  a  moment  in 
watching  Maclear. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  say  why  he  inter- 
ested them.  Perhaps  it  was  the  look  in  his  face,  the 
singular  hard  radiance  that  filled  it,  as  though  the 
mechanism  of  defiance  or  resolution  were  here  used 
to  express  happiness.  He  was  unconscious  of  their 
interest. 

Night  came  earlier  now.  Soon  after  the  steamer 
appeared  on  the  horizon,  bearing  straight  down  on 
the  wharf,  the  lake  had  taken  that  peculiar  and  steel- 
like  blue  which  seems  the  color  of  solitude  itself,  and 
reveals  the  Northern  cold  lying  in  wait  perpetually 
behind  the  fierce  brief  summer.  One  or  two  lights 
shone  whitely  in  the  town.  Round  the  tall  brick 

95 


96  THE  BRIDGE 

chimney  of  the  mills  thousands  of  swallows  circled  in 
ceaseless  motion,  as  they  used  to  circle  the  forest 
trees  that  stood  here.  Their  indifferent,  joyous 
flight  seemed  to  say:  "Wait,  and  in  a  little  while  we 
shall  again  fly  about  trees,  though  many  of  us  shall 
never  outlive  the  year." 

As  the  steamer  approached  the  wharf  an  old  Indian 
woman  came  in  the  still  blue  dusk,  carrying  a  basket 
of  red  cloth  pincushions  worked  with  red  and  blue 
beads,  beaded  moccasins,  and  little  birch-bark  canoes 
for  sale.  She  spread  her  wares  on  the  edge  of  the 
wharf  where  the  passengers  must  go  by,  and  squatted 
behind  them  silently.  Maclear  went  and  rummaged 
in  the  basket,  conscious  that  at  the  moment  the 
steamer  had  floated  the  last  few  yards  of  her  journey, 
reached  the  wharf,  and  been  moored.  In  the  great 
lake  silence  he  heard  the  creak  of  the  hawsers,  the 
voices,  the  thuds  of  freight  thrown  out  on  the  plank- 
ing, clear  but  small,  as  if  a  distance  intervened. 
Then  people  began  to  pass  him,  going  on  board,  go- 
ing up  to  the  town. 

He  did  not  turn  to  glance  at  them,  for  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  old  woman's  basket  he  had  come  upon  a 
pair  of  moccasins  worked  with  dyed  porcupine  quills 
and  lined  with  rabbit  fur.  He  bought  them.  Seeing 
his  pleasure,  the  old  creature  doubled  their  price. 
He  paid  it  without  question.  He  would  have  paid 


THE  MIST  97 

much  more  for  the  delight  of  putting  the  pretty  things 
on  Sombra's  small  browned  feet. 

He  had  not  heard  that  some  one,  among  the  many 
who  passed  him,  had  paused,  hesitated,  and  stopped, 
and  now  stood  behind  him,  waiting  till  he  should 
turn. 

He  turned,  smiling  at  the  moccasins  in  his  hand, 
and  looked  from  them  into  Moira's  face. 

Still  as  she,  he  waited  for  the  shock  of  enforced 
recollection,  of  associated  pain;  for  to  him  she  must 
always  come  with  a  shadow  of  pain.  But  nothing 
troubled  him. 

Then  Maclear  knew  that  he  was  free  of  the  past. 
He  asked  quietly,  "Why  are  you  here?" 

"I  came  here  to  find  you,  Alan.  I  have  found 
you  sooner  than  I  hoped  I  should." 

"Why  did  you  want  to  find  me?" 

She  looked  at  him  curiously,  aware,  even  in  that 
first  minute  which  to  her  was  fuller  of  emotion  than 
she  could  well  suffer,  of  a  resistance  in  him  that  was 
almost  hostility.  The  eyes  that  met  her  own  were 
quite  cold,  quite  unmoved.  Maclear  was  looking 
down  at  her  as  though  she  were  a  stranger.  She 
thought  of  that  last  time,  when  she  had  looked  down 
at  him,  when  he  had  lain  at  her  feet.  They  had 
been  nearer  in  soul  then.  She  said  with  some  dif- 
ficulty, "I  did  not  come  to — hurt  you,  Alan." 


98  THE  BRIDGE 

"You  could  n't  do  that,  Moira." 

The  words,  gentle  in  themselves,  held  a  ring  of 
strange  hardness.  He  had  spoken  as  much  to  him- 
self as  to  her.  Both  knew  it  for  the  truth;  both  felt 
between  them  a  separation  deep  as  the  sea.  And  this 
separation  was  neither  of  sin,  nor  remorse,  nor  sor- 
row. It  was  of  happiness. 

She  had  hardly  held  herself  to  the  courage  for 
this  journey.  She  had  questioned,  doubted,  ago- 
nized. Now  that  she  saw  this  man,  whom  once  for  a 
little  while  she  had  all  but  loved,  who  once  in  his 
way  had  all  but  loved  her,  her  heart  failed.  She 
asked  unsteadily,  "Is  there  anywhere  we  can  talk  a 
little  while?" 

He  still  looked  at  her,  master  of  himself,  master 
of  her.  He  asked  again,  "Why  have  you  come?" 

"I  fancied  you  in  great  loneliness  and  trouble,  as 
I  was.  I  came  to  comfort  you." 

"You  could  n't  do  that,  Moira." 

Again  the  gentle  words  with  their  half -cruel  mean- 
ing. She  said  in  a  low  voice:  "No.  I  see  that  I 
could  not.  But,  having  come,  and  having  found  you 
so  quickly,  I  will  say  what  I  meant  to  say.  Where 
can  we  go?" 

He  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  nor  stir.  And 
she  said  quickly,  in  a  kind  of  amazement,  knowing 
his  thought,  "You  '11  at  least  listen?" 


THE  MIST  99 

"If  you  wish  it.  But  I  'm  not  staying  in  the  town. 
I  'm  afraid  I  have  nowhere  to  take  you." 

"It  does  n't  matter  in  the  least.  I  knew  you  were 
not  staying  here.  I  have  your  address  from  Mr. 
Raynham.  He  would  hardly  give  it  to  me;  but  he 
was  anxious  about  you  too, — afraid,  as  I  was,  that 
you  were  ill  and  alone — " 

She  broke  off,  again  watching  him  with  a  kind  of 
wonder;  his  health,  his  strength,  his  good  looks,  had 
never  been  so  apparent;  they  seemed  to  her  an  insult 
to  remembrance;  but  then  she  told  herself  that  she 
was  a  woman. 

"I  am  going  to  the  hotel,  anyway.  From  there  I 
was  going  to  try  to  reach  you — with  what  I  had  to 
say.  But  I  can  say  it  here,  and  now." 

Maclear  said  slowly  and,  as  she  well  knew,  unwill- 
ingly: 

"Come  a  little  way  along  the  beach,  then.  No  one 
is  there  to  overhear." 

He  led  her  from  the  wharf  and  along  the  beach  on 
the  side  away  from  the  town.  It  was  solitary  except 
for  a  man  who  drove  along  the  shingle  in  a  farm 
wagon,  and  by  the  wharf  turned  his  team  into  the 
waves  to  water  them.  The  beasts  drank  deep,  then 
lifted  their  heads  and  snuffed  the  air  toward  the 
horizon,  shoulder-deep  in  quiet  foam.  Maclear  led 
Moira  to  a  stranded  log  beneath  some  acacia  bushes 


100  THE  BRIDGE 

that  grew  from  the  low  cliff  behind  the  beach.     He 
said,  "We  can  talk  here." 

She  was  tired.  She  sat  down  on  the  log,  looking 
up  at  him.  He  stood  before  her.  It  was  as  though 
he  were  almost  out  of  sight,  of  hearing,  of  her  who 
spoke  to  him  from  grief.  He  waited  for  her  to  begin. 

The  impulse  to  leave  him,  with  all  she  had  come 
to  tell  him  untold,  was  strong  on  her.  What  she  had 
considered  the  spiritual  command  was  stronger  still. 
She  said,  "You  don't  know  what  I  came  to  say  to 
you?" 

"Of  course  not."  Again  with  amazement  she 
heard  the  forbearance  in  his  voice. 

"You  don't — wish  to  hear?" 

"I  wish  you  to  do  anything  that  seems  good  to  you. 
I  thought  there  was  n't  much  left  in  the  world  to  say 
between  us.  I  never  even  expected  to  see  you  again. 
But  if  you  have  found  anything  that  must  be  said, 
say  it,  Moira,  and  let  me  go." 

His  words  left  her  adrift,  helplessly  catching  at  a 
response  that  was  not  there.  Pride  of  sorrow  alone 
helped  her  to  go  on.  "I  '11  say  it,  then.  I  came  to 
forgive  you." 

He  remained  looking  down  at  her  in  silence,  not- 
ing that  her  delicate  fair  face  was  worn,  her  eyes  un- 
naturally large,  her  whole  expression  one  of  an  al- 
most solemn  sweetness.  Now  the  sense  of  distance 
was  with  him.  She  seemed  to  have  passed  on  a  long 


THE  MIST  101 

way  beyond  him.  And  her  physical  fragility  touched 
him  as  nothing  she  could  say  had  power  to  do. 

He  said,  more  gently,  "That  is — very  fine  of  you, 
Moira.  But — " 

The  inadequate  words  filled  her  with  a  sudden  bit- 
ter amusement.  That  struggle  of  the  soul,  that  awful 
strife  with  grief  and  hate,  to  be  so  rewarded!  She 
repeated,  "But—?" 

"Do  you  want  the  truth?" 

"Always,  from  you." 

Even  that  did  not  move  him.  He  looked  at  her 
.compassionately,  yet  with  a  suggestion  of  righteous 
impatience  behind  the  compassion. 

He  said:  "Then  I  will  tell  you  the  truth.  It's 
purely  the  least  thing  I  can  do  for  you,  when  you 
have  come  so  far  for  me.  And  remember  that 
you  Ve  asked  me  for  it,  that  I  should  n't  have  given 
it  to  you  of  myself." 

"Well,  Alan?" 

In  the  deepening  dusk  her  face,  upturned  to  him, 
gleamed  with  the  unearthly  whiteness,  the  unearthly 
delicacy,  of  a  flower.  He  hesitated  again,  and  see- 
ing it,  she  flung  out  her  hands  to  him  in  a  gesture  of 
scorn.  "Oh!"  she  said,  "don't  try  to  find  pleasant 
words!  Don't  try  to  spare  me!  Tell  me  the  truth. 
You  don't  want  to  be  reminded,  even  by  forgiveness? 
You  want  to  forget  it  all?" 

"I  want  to  forget.     And  I  am  forgetting." 


102  THE  BRIDGE 

He  turned  from  her,  took  a  few  short  paces  on 
the  stones,  and  came  back.  She  waited,  motionless, 
her  sad  eyes  staring  at  him  through  the  twilight. 

"There  's  more.  Back  there,  in  the  city,  when  I 
saw  you — " 

Her  eyes  caught  and  held  his.  Incredibly,  it  was 
hers  that  failed. 

"Back  there,  I  was  sick.  I  was  not  myself. 
Without  minimizing  my  sorrow  for  what 's  happened, 
Moira,  I  must  say  this:  I  don't  hold  myself  as  guilty 
as  you  hold  me;  and  I  don't  see  myself  as  greatly  in 
need  of  forgiveness  for  what  I  could  help  no  more 
than  you  could." 

"The  bridge—" 

"Did  I  design  it  to  fall?" 

"And  he—" 

As  though  from  a  spiritual  security  greater  than 
any  to  which  she  could  attain,  he  answered  calmly: 
"He  knows,  if  he  knows  anything,  and  you  know, 
that  I  'd  have  given  my  life -for  his,  any  day." 

She  saw  him,  for  a  moment,  faint  and  indistinct. 
He  went  on,  with  a  rising  bitterness:  "A  terrible  mis- 
fortune came  to  me.  You,  with  your  weight  of  for- 
giveness, would  turn  it  into  a  crime.  Good  God!  one 
would  think  I  'd  killed  Gordon  with  my  own  hands! 
I  did  no  more  than  a  hundred  others  do  with  no  bad 
results.  And  you  'd  make  me  pay  for  all!  Moira, 
it  was  no  crime.  I  refuse  to  take  that  degree  of  re- 


THE  MIST  103 

sponsibility,  to  accept  it  from  you.  I  did  wrong, 
but  I  won't  submit  to  punishment  for  something  of 
which  I  'm  as  innocent  in  intention  as  you.  It  was 
one  of  the  terrible  tricks  life  sometimes  plays  on 
any  one  of  us, — on  you,  or  me,  or  any  one.  Life — 
it  would  grind  us  to  dust,  if  we  'd  let  it.  Don't  for- 
give me  too  much,  Moira;  don't  forgive  me  for  what, 
after  all,  I  did  n't  do!" 

She  was  silent,  blankly  bewildered,  blankly  won- 
dering. Almost  he  had  put  her  in  the  wrong,  made 
her  less  than  just,  less  than  kind,  her  who  had 
broken  what  was  left  of  her  heart  in  order  that  she 
might  pity  and  forgive.  She  could  find  no  words 
in  which  to  refute  him.  Words  were  nothing.  This 
difference  lay  in  the  very  language  of  the  soul;  this 
distortion  lay  in  the  very  sight  of  the  spiritual  eyes. 
The  tragic  facts  were  common  to  them  both;  he  could 
not  deny  these,  but  he  saw  them  out  of  relation, 
strangely  veiled,  the  large  small,  the  small  great,  as 
things  are  seen  through  mist.  And  he  was  quite 
blind  to  what  had  lain  the  corner-stone  of  that 
tragedy. 

He  was  still  looking  at  her  steadily.  The  pity 
which  she  had  come  to  give  him,  though  it  killed  her, 
he  gave  her.  She  smiled  faintly,  feeling  very  tired, 
too  tired  to  resist,  too  tired  to  argue,  too  tired  to  ex- 
plain. She  said,  very  slowly:  "Then  it  comes  to 
this:  You — don't — want  to  be — forgiven?" 


104  THE  BRIDGE 

He  corrected  her:  "I  don't  need  to  be." 

She  just  breathed  the  words,  "You  can  get  on  with- 
out it!" 

He  assented  gravely:  "I  can  get  on  without  it,  in 
the  sense  in  which  you  offer  it.  I  must  go  on.  I 
must  live  my  life.  I  must  forget.  I  'm  a  man. 
Not  as  you.  I  can't  keep  myself  turning  like  a 
wheel  around  a  perpetual  shaft  of  remorse,  of  grief. 
And  I  wouldn't  if  I  could,  for  a  dreadful  disaster 
for  which,  in  the  higher  moral  light  of  motive,  I  'm 
not  responsible." 

He  was  so  assured  that  for  an  instant  Moira  had 
a  reeling  vision  of  altered  values,  of  facts  shifting 
and  changing  ground,  of  the  real  becoming  shadow, 
and  the  shadow  becoming  truth,  like  things  seen  in 
a  flowing  mist.  She  controlled  herself,  and  the  glass 
through  which  she  had  seen  darkly  cleared.  After 
a  moment  she  asked,  "When  are  you  going  home?" 

"I  don't  know.  Not  yet.  Not  until  I  must. 
Raynham  will  send  the  schooner  for  me  soon,  or  if 
anything  happens  to  make  it  necessary.  He 's  quite 
competent  to  carry  on  in  small  things,  and  there  are 
no  big  ones  on  hand  just  now."  He  frowned  a  min- 
ute, thinking  of  the  bridge,  hoping  that  the  inquiry 
would  be  soon  now,  and  the  air  cleared,  and  business 
good  again, — in  time.  It  would  take  time,  of  course. 
"I  shall  stay  away  as  long  as  I  can.  Will  you  be 
in  the  city  when  I  go  back?" 


THE  MIST  105 

"No.  I  am  going  south  for  the  winter.  I  only 
came  to — to  speak  to  you  before  I  went." 

He  said  quickly,  "Don't  think  I  'm  ungrateful, — 
for  what  you  intended." 

"For  what  you  refuse — " 

He  had  been  looking  away  from  her,  looking  down 
the  beach  toward  the  wharf.  Now  he  turned  on  her 
with  a  fierce  passionateness  she  had  never  known  in 
him  before.  He  said  in  a  low  voice:  "By  God,  you 
good  woman!  Do  you  want  to  make  me  out  a  mur- 
derer in  the  face  of  the  truth?" 

She  shut  her  eyes,  almost  terrified  at  the  abyss 
which  lay  between  them;  shaken  by  the  mere  mas- 
culine force  of  his  anger;  and  all  the  time  with  a 
sense  of  blurred  vision,  of  choked  breath,  of  warn- 
ing voices  thin  and  displaced,  as  by  an  invisible  fog. 
She  did  not  reply.  By  and  by  he  continued  quietly: 

"There  is  no  need  to  try  to  talk  of  this  any  more. 
It  is  better  left  alone.  Neither  you  nor  I  shall  over- 
look our  grief.  Neither  you  nor  I  can  judge  the 
other.  Neither  you  nor  I,  it  seems,  can  adjust  him- 
self to  the  other's  point  of  view.  If  I  have  hurt  you 
in  this,  I  'm  sorry.  I  'd  do  pretty  nearly  anything 
in  the  world  for  you — but  this.  I  won't,  by  accept- 
ing your  tremendous  forgiveness,  brand  myself  a 
Cain  before  you." 

She  rose,  i|nable  to  bear  anything  further,  longing 
to  be  alone,  that  in  one  of  the  mystic  communions 


106  THE  BRIDGE 

in  which  of  late  her  failing  flesh  had  been  sustained 
she  might  confess  to  Gordon  that  she  had  failed; 
ask,  with  intense  hearing  strained  beyond  the  hush 
of  the  night,  his  advice;  find,  perhaps,  somewhere 
under  the  stars,  an  echo  of  his  comfort.  Maclear 
asked,  "Will  you  let  me  take  you  to  your  hotel?" 

"No.  No,  thank  you,  Alan.  I  would  rather  go 
alone." 

He  saw  she  meant  it.  He  said:  "As  you  wish.  I 
am  waiting  here  for  some  one.  Then  I  am  going 
out  to  the  island." 

"To  Port  Tallis?" 

"Yes." 

Moira  looked  beyond  him.  She  asked,  "Is  this  the 
one  you  were  waiting  for?" 

Maclear  turned.  Moira,  watching  him  rather  than 
the  one  who  came  to  him  along  the  beach,  saw  his 
fine  hard  face  suddenly  soften  to  a  great  tenderness. 
The  marks  of  life  cleared;  he  looked  as  though  he 
had  never  suifered  in  anything,  never  sinned  in  any- 
thing. And  there  was  something  besides  this,  infi- 
nitely moving  and  appealing.  It  was  an  uncommon 
expression  for  any  man's  face  to  wear.  Seen  on  his, 
it  was  incredible.  For  it  was  the  look  of  weakness 
dependent  on  strength. 

Sombra  approached  them  slowly.  Her  beauty 
took  on  some  of  the  grandeur  of  the  coming  night. 
Her  eyes  rested  on  Moira  a  moment,  then  went  to 


THE  MIST  107 

Maclear.  And  even  in  the  twilight  Moira  could  per- 
ceive the  color  leap  to  the  browned  cheeks,  the  breath 
to  the  noble  bosom. 

She  asked,  uncertainly,  "Is  this — " 

"Yes,"  answered  Maclear,  directly.  "I  was  mar- 
ried to  her  last  week.  This  is  Sombra,  my  wife." 

After  a  long  minute  Moira  went  to  the  girl  and 
took  her  hands.  She  said,  brokenly :  "You  're  my 
sister,  then.  I  hope  you  will  be  as  happy  as  I  was." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  answered  Sombra. 
"You  're  very  kind.  I — did  n't  know  Alan  had  a 
sister." 

"I  was  his  brother's  wife." 

Sombra's  great  kind  eyes  rested  on  the  fair  worn 
face,  on  the  black  dress.  Suddenly  she  leaned  for- 
ward, and  touched  Moira's  cheek  with  her  warm  lips. 

"I  'm  sure  that  was  a  good  wish,"  she  said  softly, 
"and  I  couldn't  help  but  be  happy  with  Alan; 
could  I?" 

But  Moira  could  not  reply.  At  the  touch  of 
those  innocent,  trustful  lips  the  tears  had  come.  She 
pressed  Sombra's  hand  and  turned  from  them  along 
the  shadowy  beach,  weeping.  Sombra  asked  Mac- 
lear, "Ain't  you  goin'  along  with  her,  Alan?" 

He  said  gravely,  "She  would  rather  go  alone." 

"She  'd — come  to  see  you,  Alan?" 

"Yes.  She  'd  come  to  see  if  I  was  well  and 
happy." 


108  THE  BRIDGE 

'That  was  sweet  of  her,  poor  lady.  It — don't 
seem  right  to  let  her  go  that  way.  What  did  you 
tell  her?  Did  you  say  you  was — happy?" 

Under  the  delicate  acacia  leaves,  between  the  low 
cliff  and  the  foam,  Maclear  caught  her  to  him.  His 
lips  were  crushed  to  hers.  There  was  something  hard 
and  defiant  in  his  love.  He  said  presently,  in  an  un- 
steady voice:  "I  told  her  I  was  happy  as  heaven. 
Happy,  happy,  happy.  Gome,  Sombra,  let  us  go 
home." 


II 


Under  the  gray  curve  of  the  sail  the  low  stars  led 
them.  There  was  dew  on  the  sail,  dew  on  the  sheets. 
Tallis  Island  lay  ahead  like  a  shadow  growing  nearer 
each  moment.  They  were  infinitely  alone.  On  the 
lake  no  sail  showed  but  theirs. 

Sombra  sat  in  the  stern  with  Maclear.  Her  head 
rested  against  his  shoulder.  She  was  silent.  Her 
eyes  held  the  mystery  of  the  night  as  she  watched  one 
faintest  pin-prick  of  light  in  the  great  violet  distance, 
which  was  the  kitchen  window  at  Morning  House. 

In  time  this  light  grew  brighter  and  seemed  another 
star,  low  above  the  sand-hills  and  the  unseen  lagoons. 
The  little  skiff  altered  her  course,  flying  homeward 
like  a  bird  on  the  light  following  breeze.  The  water 
chattered  beneath  her  keel  with  a  low,  intimate  sound. 


THE  MIST  109 

That  was  the  only  one  until  they  entered  the  narrow 
channel  of  the  first  lagoon,  and  the  reeds  brushed  the 
sides  of  the  boat  as  she  turned.  A  single  bird 
sprang  from  some  hidden  nest  with  a  faint  chirp,  and 
settled  again.  Maclear  asked  in  a  hushed  voice, 
"Tired,  honey?" 

"No."  She  turned  her  head  so  that  her  eyes 
rested  on  him.  He  saw  in  them  the  very  poetry  of 
passion.  Beyond  and  behind  this  tenderness,  the  in- 
nocent abandonment  of  surrender,  was  a  doubt, — not 
of  him,  but  of  herself.  He  did  not  see  it.  He  per- 
sisted, his  lips  close  to  hers,  "Then  what 's  my  girl 
thinking  about?" 

"I  was  thinkin'  about  the  many  times  I  've  come 
home  to  the  island,  sometimes  with  Sal,  sometimes 
with  Mait,  in  the  rain  and  in  the  sun,  in  the  snow  and 
in  the  cold."  There  was  a  fire,  a  grace  in  her  voice 
and  slight  gestures  which  seemed  of  the  South,  as 
did  the  sudden  fullness  and  completeness  of  her  love. 

"I  was  thinkin'  that  all  our  lives  we're  just  on 
the  way  home,  seekin'  through  the  world,  over  the 
land,  over  the  water,  till  we  find — this." 

She  turned  closer  to  him  and  hid  her  face  on  his 
breast.  "Oh,  hold  me,  love,"  she  said,  "hold  me, 
an'  never  let  me  go!  I  'm  poor  an'  common;  I 
ain't  fit  for  you.  But  I  'm  yours.  Oh,  hold  me! 
It 's  like  as  if  I  'd  no  home  now  in  all  the  world  but 
here  with  you." 


110  THE  BRIDGE 

"Rest  in  it,  my  dear,"  whispered  Maclear,  huskily. 
"I  '11  hold  you  and  never  let  you  go." 

The  little  boat  swept  down  another  narrow  water 
channel,  a  winding  course  paved  with  increasing 
stars.  In  the  west  they  faced  still  burned  a  hand's- 
breadth  of  the  great  afterglow. 

After  a  little,  Sombra  whispered  again:  "And  I 
was  bein'  sorry,  Alan,  sorry  for  them  that  has  no 
home  like  this  of  mine.  And  for  them  that 's  had 
such  a  home,  dear,  and  lost  it.  I  was  thinkin'  of 
that  poor  lady." 

Maclear' s  arm  tightened  about  her.  He  said,  sud- 
denly and  harshly,  "Don't  be  sorry." 

"I  could  n't  help  but  be  sorry,  now  that  I  know 
what  she  's  doin'  without.  Alan,  tell  me  about  your 
brother." 

Maclear  was  silent.  He  was  facing  the  fact  that 
he  could  not.  Presently  she  stirred  and  looked  up  at 
him  with  wonder.  He  bent  instantly  and  kissed  her. 

"Sombra,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "not  now.  Don't 
let  us  cloud  these  days  of  ours  with  even  the  thought 
of  unhappy  things."  He  looked  away  from  her,  and 
again  the  little  boat  altered  her  whispering  course 
under  his  steady  hand.  "I  want  to  be  happy,"  he 
went  on,  in  a  breathless  voice.  "I  must  be  happy. 
My  God,  I  will  be  happy!"  He  looked  at  her  again. 
And  she  saw  in  the  starlight  that  there  were  tears  in 
his  eyes.  "Sombra,"  he  finished  a  little  brokenly, 


THE  MIST  111 

"if  you  must  be  sorry  for  some  one,  be  sorry  for  me. 
For  I  need  it  very  much." 

Moved  beyond  expression,  she  clung  to  him.  She 
said  nothing,  nor  asked  another  question.  She  was 
one  of  those  natures  to  whom  love  brings  in  a  day, 
a  week,  all  ripeness,  all  wisdom,  all  fulfilment.  She 
had  learned  silence;  and  she  was  silent  now.  Only 
she  searched  within  her  young  heart  to  see  if  there 
remained  a  thought  or  a  comfort  which  was  not  yet 
Maclear's,  and  which  she  might  give  him. 

That  night  Moira  knelt  a  long  time  at  the  window 
of  her  hotel  bedroom.  She  found  a  sort  of  peace  in 
the  silence,  and  in  the  great  height  of  stars  over  the 
lake,  whither  the  sail  of  Maclear's  boat  had  faded 
and  dwindled  with  the  day.  She  could  not  follow 
him  and  his  in  thought  to  their  island  of  happiness; 
her  bruised  heart  shrank  from  that  journey.  But 
she  was  more  at  rest  than  she  had  been  for  a  long 
time.  She  had  done  what  she  had  come  to  do.  If, 
as  at  that  time  often  occurred  to  her,  she  was  not  to 
live  very  long,  she  had  at  least  fulfilled  the  last  pos- 
sible obligation  that  life  could  lay  on  her. 

m 

Maclear's  marriage  to  Sombra  made  very  little 
change  in  the  life  at  Morning  House.  She  still 
cooked  and  worked  for  them  all.  If  he  made  any 
reference  to  the  time  when  she  would  not  have  to 


112  THE  BRIDGE 

work,  she  was  shy  and  troubled.  Love,  having 
opened  to  her  the  gates  of  wisdom,  now  taught  her 
fear.  She  feared  the  future,  though  it  was  his. 

They  had  to  discuss  this  future,  though  each  of 
them  was  strangely  eager  to  live  only  in  the  present. 
And  it  was  agreed  between  them,  from  the  first,  that 
when  they  left  Tallis  Island,  Morning  House  should 
be  closed. 

Sal  would  go  with  them,  sooner  or  later,  to  the 
city,  and  there  Maclear  would  start  him  in  life.  He 
had  a  great  tenderness  for  the  boy,  and  would  have 
done  more  than  this;  but  Salvator  would  take  no 
more  from  him  than  the  opportunity  of  work. 

There  remained  Mail  Ransome. 

In  those  days  his  personality  seemed  fading  from 
him;  he  resembled  more  and  more  the  house  in 
which  he  lived, — an  empty  shell  resounding  only 
with  storms.  His  hatred  had  sapped  and  survived 
all  the  rest  of  his  nature.  And  now  Maclear  feared 
that  his  madness  was  increasing,  though  outwardly 
the  old  man  gave  him  no  real  cause  for  this 
uneasiness. 

They  told  him  of  their  marriage.  Neither  at  the 
time,  nor  later,  did  he  appear  to  understand.  But 
he  sat  for  hours  when  he  was  alone,  repeating  over 
and  over  to  himself  those  words  that  held  the  whole 
sum  of  happiness  for  Maclear:  "Married.  He 's 


THE  MIST  113 

married  to  her."  In  a  little  time,  had  there  been 
any  one  to  listen,  he  might  have  been  heard  whisper- 
ing: "Married.  He  's  married  to  Martha."  And  as 
he  whispered  his  great  hands  closed  on  the  toy  yacht 
he  was  rigging,  so  that  when  he  opened  them  the 
mimic  rigging  and  the  fairy  spars  fell  crushed  and 
tangled  on  the  ground.  He  was  beyond  the  reach  of 
living  voices.  To  him  the  woman  he  loved  had  just 
been  married  to  Juan  Luz. 

Then  Sombra  remembered  some  old  friends  of  her 
mother's  who  had  a  farm  on  the  mainland  about 
thirty  miles  from  the  town.  In  the  old  days,  before 
Mait  had  become  so  crazy,  she  and  Sal  had  stopped 
there  in  the  summer.  "Kind,  nat'ral  folk,"  she  said 
they  were,  "and  their  cooking-stove  had  three  ovens." 
They  were  not  too  fortunate.  She  thought,  for  a 
consideration,  they  would  give  Mait  a  kind  home  if 
he  would  agree  to  go.  "And  he  '11  be  better  there," 
she  said;  "he  won't  hear  the  lake  in  the  storms,  and 
maybe  he  '11  forget  about  Father  at  last." 

So  to  these  people  Maclear  wrote,  in  his  own  name 
and  hers.  He  liked  their  reply.  He  arranged  a 
meeting  with  the  farmer  in  town,  and  settled  the 
matter  then  and  there.  There  seemed  some  quality 
in  Mackerrow,  like  the  quality  inherent  in  a  cooking- 
stove  with  three  ovens,  that  reassuringly  balanced 
Mail's  craziness. 


114  THE  BRIDGE 

When  they  told  the  old  man  of  this  arrangement, 
he  acquiesced  in  all  they  said. 

They  did  not  hear  him,  hours  afterward,  murmur- 
ing in  his  darkness:  "Martha  's  leavin'  me.  She  's 
goin'  away  with  Juan  Luz." 

This  was  the  last,  or  all  but  the  last,  of  Maclear's 
new  cares.  When  this  had  been  arranged,  he  gave 
himself  up  wholly  to  happiness. 

With  the  lovely  renewal  of  his  confidence  in  life 
that  Sombra  had  brought  him,  and  which  was  like  a 
renewal  of  youth,  he  began  to  play  with  life  and  work 
as  he  had  never  played  before. 

All  life  now  came  to  him  in  this  guise  of  re- 
newal, this  restoration  of  things  perishing.  He  be- 
gan to  plan  the  rescue  of  little  Port  Tallis  from  the 
sand. 

He  told  Sombra:  "The  drift  of  sand  is  all  from 
the  west.  I've  been  watching  the  currents  in  the 
harbor.  If  we  turned  the  ledge  into  a  breakwater, 
and  had  the  harbor  on  the  other  side,  a  dredge  for 
a  week  in  the  spring  would  keep  it  clear.  Then  we  'd 
clear  some  of  the  channels,  run  a  line  of  pipe  out  into 
the  lake,  hide  a  pumping-station  back  there  among  the 
sand-hills,  build  some  pretty  new  houses,  and  we  'd 
have  a  town  all  of  our  own  to  play  with." 

There  spoke  the  spirit  of  his  land.  He  went  on, 
"And  we  'd  have  a  house  of  our  own  here,  for  the 
summer."  Later,  he  showed  her  the  place  for  their 


THE  MIST  115 

house, — an  island  in  an  island,  a  little  world  of  white 
sand  entirely  encircled  by  the  broad  blue  lagoons, 
and  grown  with  tall  poplars;  straight  columns  of 
leaves  now  yellowing  faintly  to  the  year's  change. 
In  the  sand  he  marked  out  the  design  of  the  house, — 
the  large  rooms,  the  wide  veranda,  the  separate 
kitchen  quarters.  Sombra,  who  had  been  watching 
her  god  thus  shaping  a  world  for  her,  here  asked  him 
solemnly,  "Will  I  have  to  have  help?" 

He  laughed  at  her.     "Of  course,  Mrs.  Maclear!" 

She  flushed.  He  called  her  by  that  name  daily  for 
the  delight  of  seeing  the  lovely  following  glow.  But 
she  said,  "I  'd  be  dead  scared  of  help." 

"Not  you!  You  '11  be  bossing  them  in  no  time,  as 
you  do  me."  He  went  back  to  his  plans  in  the  sand, 
saying,  as  he  stooped,  "And  here,  at  this  corner  that 
takes  both  south  and  west,  shall  be  your  room." 

She  said  softly,  "Ours." 

His  eyes  worshiped  her,  but  he  persisted:  "No. 
Yours  only.  One  room,  both  in  this  house  and  in 
the  house  we  '11  have  in  the  city,  shall  be  yours  only. 
And  it  shall  be  a  golden  room,  Sombra.  Walls, 
hangings,  fancy  stuff, — everything  shall  be  gold.  It 
won't  be  just  a  room,  you  see.  It  '11  be  a  type  of 
your  golden  heart,  a  shrine  for  you,  My  Lady  of 
Comfort.  I  shall  always  ask  your  leave,  very  hum- 
bly, before  I  'm  allowed  in.  But  you  '11  open  to  me 
when  I  knock?" 


116  THE  BRIDGE 

"Husband,  is  there  any  place  of  mine  I  would  n't 
let  you  into?  Can  you  think  of  any  door,  and  me 
behind  it,  and  not  openin'  to  you?" 

He  kissed  her  hands  passionately.  But  there  was 
some  shadow  of  that  dumb  trouble  in  her  face  which 
even  he  was  not  always  able  to  kiss  away.  And  he 
kept  the  hands  in  his,  asking  gently,  "What  is  it, 
child?" 

"Alan,  have  you  a  terr'ble  lot  of  money?" 

"No,  dear  heart.     Not  a  terr'ble  lot." 

She  flushed  again  at  his  mimicry  of  her  way  of 
speaking,  tender  as  it  had  been.  He  did  not  notice 
it.  He  repeated  his  question.  Then  as  she  did  not 
answer,  said  with  a  little  laugh:  "Don't  you  want 
a  house  here,  Mrs.  Maclear?  Then  you  sha'n't  have 
one." 

"It  ain't — it  is  n't  that.  But  since  you  come,  I 
don't  want  this  place  changed.  Not  even  changed  in 
a  nice  way.  I  would  like  to  keep  it  the  same  for- 
ever." 

"So  should  I — in  one  way.  But  change  will  come 
in  spite  of  us,  honey." 

"Oh,  I  know.  That 's  life.  Sometimes,  since  you 
come,  it  hurts  me.  I  would  like  to  hold  just  these 
days  that  go  so  fast,  to  catch  them  in  my  hands  as 
if  they  was  pretty  birds,  never  to  let  them  go.  But 
I  can't." 

"I  would  like  that  too,  Sombra." 


THE  MIST  117 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  wistfully.  "Would 
you?  It 's  different  for  you,  dear.  You  're  a  man. 
You  got  your  work  to  do.  I  know,  soon,  you  '11 
have  to  go  and  do  it.  Me — sometimes  I  wish  you 
could  go  away  and  do  your  work,  and  then  come  back 
to  me,  and  find  me  waitin'  for  you  here,  in  the  old 
house  among  the  lagoons,  by  the  old  silted  harbor, 
just  the  same  as  I  am  now;  and  we  'd  be  just  the 
same  together,  you  an'  me." 

He  was  silent,  startled.  She  had  put  her  finger, 
as  it  were,  on  the  one  thing  which  yet  shadowed  his 
thought  of  their  future.  For  he,  too,  dreaded 
change,  and  especially  any  change  which  directly 
affected  Sombra.  He  could  not  do  without  her.  He 
could  not  picture,  now,  any  day  or  night  of  his  life 
without  her.  He  longed  to  possess  her  every  hour. 
But  he  longed  also  to  leave  her  as  she  was,  his  golden 
rose  growing  in  her  lovely  desolation.  He  wanted 
her  with  him  always.  Yet  he  wanted,  too,  to  hold 
her  in  some  sort  apart  from  life, — his  secret  garden, 
his  fountain  sealed, — that  by  his  returns  to  her  his 
life  might  be  perpetually  and  exquisitely  renewed. 

There  seemed  a  disloyalty  even  in  the  thought. 
He  put  it  by,  asking  with  a  smile,  "Could  you  do 
without  me  like  that,  honey?" 

A  gravity  had  come  on  them  both.  She  was  pale, 
and  even  at  a  thought  of  separation  tears  misted  her 
eyes.  But  she  answered: 


118  THE  BRIDGE 

"Yes.  Yes,  Alan,  I  could,  if  that  way  it  would  be 
better  and  happier  for  you." 

"Well — I  couldn't  get  on  without  you!" 

His  voice  was  rough  with  emotion.  He  slid  for- 
ward till  he  rested  on  the  sand  at  her  feet.  She  sat 
erect  against  the  bole  of  a  poplar.  He  thought  she 
looked  like  some  strong  angel  at  the  foot  of  a  pillar; 
and  he  and  she,  and  the  shaft  of  light  innumerable 
leaves  above  them,  were  shadowed  forth  in  the  water 
below,  like  a  picture  caught  in  a  blue  jewel.  Now, 
after  one  of  her  silences,  she  leaned  over  him,  gently 
slid  her  hand  under  his  chin,  and  turned  his  face  so 
that  she  looked  into  it.  Her  eyes  met  his  with  that 
calm  look  in  which,  the  more  utterly  she  gave  her- 
self, the  more  utterly  she  seemed  to  possess  herself. 

She  asked  gently,  "Why?" 

Staring  at  her,  his  face  whitened.  He  said,  "Can 
you  ask  me  that?" 

"Yes.  Yes,  I  do  ask  it.  It  has  been  in  my  mind 
to  ask  it,  Alan,  many  a  time.  Why  is  it  you  need 
me  so  much?" 

"I  love  you,  Sombra." 

"But  I  love  you  more  'n  you  do  me.  Yes,  yes,  I 
do.  I  love  you  so  that  it  seems  to  me  sometimes  that 
I  Ve  turned  into  you,  that  I  see  things  with  your  eyes, 
touch  them  with  your  hands.  And  yet,  if  it  was  best 
for  you,  I  could  get  on  without  you  for  a  while; 


THE  MIST  119 

thinkin'  of  you  all  the  time,  waitin'  for  you,  prayin' 
for  you.  But  you  couldn't  get  on  without  me  a 
day." 

"I — don't  believe  I  could,  Sombra." 

"I  know  as  you  could  n't,  Alan.     Why?" 

"I  love  you." 

"It  ain't  that." 

With  a  faint  smile  he  asked,  "Well,  what  is  it, 
then?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  would  like  to  know.  Dear,  I 
know  you  love  me  true.  But — it  don't  seem  in  man's 
nature  to  hold  to  me  as  you  do, — like  you  held  to  me 
when  you  come  to  me  in  the  blowin'  sand,  and  I  set 
my  arm  round  you,  and  you  did  not  know  even  who 
I  was,  nor  love  me  at  all.  I  would  like  to  know  what 
trouble  it  was  so  heavy  on  you  when  you  come  to  me 
that  night.  I  would  like  to  know  what  troubles  you 


now." 


"Nothing  troubles  me  now  I  have  you." 
There  was  reproach  in  her  eyes.     Maclear  looked 
down  at  the  sand  again;  he  still  felt  the  unspeakable 
tenderness  of  her  gaze,  the  protectiveness  of  her  at- 
titude against  the  screen  of  shaking,  glittering  leaves. 
"Yes,"  she  said  at  last,  "there  is  something  that 
troubles  you.     You  can't  hide  it  from  me.     Why 
won't  you  let  me  share  it  with  you? — this  thing  that 
makes  you — " 


120  THE  BRIDGE 

"Well,  child?"  he  aslqed  curiously,  hearing 
!her  hesitate  for  a  word.  "Something  that  makes 
me—?" 

"Weak." 

So  he  had  his  word. 

He  stared  at  her,  amazed.  After  a  minute  his 
face  hardened.  He  said  rapidly,  "Sombra,  you 
want  to  help  me?" 

"Dear,  ain't  I — are  n't  I — your  wife?" 

"You  believe  what  I  told  you  before? — that  my 
mistake — my  fault,  if  you  like — was  small  out  of  all 
proportion  to  the  way  I  've  been  made  to  suffer  for 
it,  and  may  still  be  made  to  suffer?" 

"Of  course." 

"Then,  if  you  want  to  help  me,  if  you  want  to 
make  me  happy  again,  help  me  to  forget.  There  's 
nothing  else." 

"Is  that  the  best  way,  Alan?" 

"It 's  the  only  way  for  strength,  Sombra." 

"Then  I  '11  help  you  that  way,  dear  love." 

He  knew  she  would  never  ask  for  his  confidence 
again. 

Later  he  wondered  why  he  had  not  given  it  to 
her,  as  she  would  have  to  know  before  long.  Had  it 
indeed  been  weakness,  or  a  natural  reluctance  to 
cloud  these  her  unforgetable  days  with  his  own 
shadow?  He  did  not  know.  And  they  did  not 
speak  of  it  again. 


THE  MIST  121 

The  year,  advancing,  folded  them  in  day  after  day 
of  golden  haze.  The  nights  were  colder.  Dawn 
sometimes  found  no  more  than  the  summits  of  the 
highest  dunes  and  the  sagging  roof  of  Morning  House 
emerging  from  a  level  ocean  of  fog.  The  first  wind 
loosened  this  fog  from  its  anchorages,  and  it  would 
go  silently  drifting  past  all  day,  riming  everything 
with  its  own  whiteness.  Or  it  would  recede  to  a 
wall  on  the  horizon,  a  wall  that  looked  sharp-cut  and 
solid  as  stone,  whence  it  would  descend  again  in  the 
night,  and  shut  Tallis  Island  away  from  the  world. 
The  lake  was  rarely  free  of  mist,  in  which  day  and 
night  they  heard  the  bellowing  voices  of  the  great 
grain-tanks,  going  up  empty  to  the  head  of  the  lakes 
to  meet,  at  the  end  of  the  harvest,  the  outpoured  tor- 
rent of  the  wheat. 

These  days  were  almost  unbearably  precious  to 
Maclear;  for  he  never  knew  when  they  would  end, 
when  Raynham  would  send  for  him  to  return  to  the 
city. 

His  impatience  outran  that  return,  near  as  he  felt 
it  to  be.  The  fancy  of  that  golden  room  in  the  city 
house  possessed  him,  as  such  fancies  do  sometimes 
possess  men  of  a  hard-working  youth,  to  whom  love 
comes  fully  for  the  first  time  at  thirty.  As  he  used 
to  play  with  the  colored  sands  of  the  island  in  the 
days  of  his  desolation,  so  he  played  with  a  hundred 
pretty  inventions  for  that  room,  which  with  its  closed 


122  THE  BRIDGE 

door  was  to  symbolize,  as  no  room  open  to  him  could 
do,  his  absolute  possession  of  Sombra. 

He  could  not  wait.  He  sent  to  the  city  for  samples 
and  specimens  of  wood,  silks,  carpets,  coverings ;  lac- 
quer, amber  glass,  and  yellow  pottery.  The  room 
was  to  be  all  mellow  gold  for  his  golden  rose  of  the 
sands.  While  he  was  ordering  these  things  it  came 
to  him,  with  amazement,  how  few  were  the  gifts  he 
had  ever  given  Sombra:  her  wedding-ring,  a  cheap 
brooch  she  had  fancied,  a  few  other  trifles.  He  was 
ashamed.  Now  he  ordered  beautiful  things  for  her 
adornment  as  he  ordered  them  for  the  unbuilt  room. 
A  slender  chain  of  topaz  set  in  gold,  a  scarf  that 
should1  be  a  tissue  of  gold  deepening  into  russet 
shadow,  one  of  those  sweeping  silken  gowns  women 
always  seemed  to  find  an  odd  time  for  wearing,— 
Maclear  guessed  himself  an  artist,  imagining  her 
beauty.  He  was  happy  as  a  boy,  lavishing  on  her  all 
the  tender  fancies  of  his  life. 

The  goods-  arrived  in  the  town  at  last,  and  he 
brought  fhem  back  to  the  island  in  the  boat.  He  and 
Sal  unpacked  the  boxes  ki  the  kitchen  that  evening, 
and  he  spread  the  samples  of  parquetry,  and  heavy 
silken  hangings,  and  deep-brown  lacquer  powdered 
with  gold,  on  the  kitchen  table  with  its  shabby  blue 
cloth.  In  the  circle  of  lamplight  Sombra  and  Sal  fin- 
gered these  things  reverently,  and  with  the  same 
simple  wonder.  She  lifted  her  eyes  to  Maclear  at 


THE  MIST  123 

last,  and  they  glowed  upon  him  with  the  same  inno- 
cence of  look.  She  whispered  tremulously,  "You  're 
doin'  all  this  for  me?" 

"For  whom  but  you  should  I  do  it,  Mrs. 
Maclear?" 

"You  're  good  to  me,  Alan.  You  're  real  good  to 
me.  But  this  is  too  much  for  what  I  am."  She  laid 
softly  back  upon,  (the  table  the  length  of  amber- 
yellow  silk  she  had  been  holding.  The  stuff  clung  to 
her  work-roughened  fingers.  The  slightest  cloud,  as 
though  of  shame,  dimmed  her  brightness.  She 
sighed,  "Too  much  for  me." 

In  answer  he  brought  the  yellow  silk  gown  and 
laid  it  in  her  arms. 

The  light  was  held  in  its  narrow  gold  embroideries. 
It  was  bordered  with  lace,  and  beyond  this  again  with 
fur.  She  breathed,  "For  me,  too?" 

"Yes.  Go  and  put  it  on,  and  show  me  how  lovely 
you  can  be." 

She  trembled  a  little  and  blushed  under  his  eyes. 
She  took  it,  meekly  as  Esther  might  have  taken  the 
gifts  of  her  king.  She  went  from  the  room  with  it. 
Maclear  showed  Sal  the  earrings  which  he  himself 
would  hang  in  her  sun-browned  ears,  the  chain  of 
topazes  which  he  would  wind  about  that  noble  throat. 
Sal  fingered  the  pretty  toys  in  silence.  At  last  he 
said  gently:  "She  ain't  used  to  things  like  this.  Be 
patient  with  her,  Alan."  But  Maclear  hardly  heard 


124  THE  BRIDGE 

him.  For  Sombra  had  come  back,  and  stood  hesi- 
tating in  the  doorway. 

He  had  known  she  was  beautiful.  But  now,  the 
power  and  royalty  of  her  beauty  held  him  motionless, 
and  her  brother  too.  The  folds  of  the  gracious  silk 
expressed  her  height,  the  delicate  color  caught  and 
increased  the  golden  light  that  seemed  always  to  rest 
on  her  skin,  as  if  it  were  an  essence  of  the  sun  that 
they  shared  between  them.  Golden  rose  she  was,  and 
rose  of  his  world.  But  her  head  that  was  carried  so 
high  above  her  poor  garments  was  bent  before  him. 
She  stood  meekly  waiting  for  his  approval. 

He  roused  himself  at  last  from  his  dream  of  her 
beauty,  and  went  to  her,  the  topaz  chain  in  his  hand. 
But  in  a  moment  he  stopped,  with  a  vexed  exclama- 
tion, a  little  laugh.  "Oh,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "I  'm 
sorry!  I  forgot  the  shoes!" 

Sombra  looked  down. 

Through  a  mist  she  saw  them, — her  ugly  shoes,  her 
working  shoes,  patched  and  misshapen,  scraped  bare 
of  blacking  by  the  sand;  under  the  furred  and  golden 
hem  of  the  gown  they  looked  ridiculous.  And  on  the 
sensitiveness  of  her  love,  the  perceptiveness  of  her 
pride — delicate  beyond  any  imagining  of  his — that 
laugh  struck  like  a  blow. 

He  was  laughing  at  her  shabby  shoes. 

She  turned  with  a  sob,  unexpected  to  her  as  to 
him.  He  saw  a  flash  of  golden  draperies,  the  re- 


THE  MIST  125 

proach  of  a  face  as  pure  as  a  wounded  child's.  Then 
she  was  gone,  and  the  outer  door  had  closed  softly 
behind  her. 

The  wild  child,  thought  Maclear,  for  all  her  wife- 
hood.  That  door  had  scarcely  closed  before  he  had 
it  open,  fond  words  on  his  lips,  his  hand  outstretched 
to  draw  her  in. 

But  he  opened  the  door  on  a  blind  world.  His 
hand  closed  on  nothing  but  mist. 

While  they  talked,  the  mist  had  enfolded  the  house, 
flooding  in  from  the  lake,  the  lagoons,  the  hidden  in- 
numerable channels  of  the  marsh.  It  was  a  sea  four 
fathoms  deep.  Moon  and  stars  stood  free  of  it,  and 
the  taller  poplars  glittered  above  its  surface.  All 
else  was  lost  and  drowned.  Into  this  mist  Sombra 
had  fled. 

Maclear,  too,  went  out,  closing  the  door  behind 
him. 

He  advanced  into  that  still  and  silver  sea.  He  felt 
that  he  must  find  Sombra,  that  he  would  lose  some- 
thing of  her  if  he  let  the  mist  keep  her  from  him  even 
for  an  hour.  She  had  been  but  a  few  minutes  gone. 
But  such  was  the  effect  of  the  mist  that  time  and  dis- 
tance were  distorted.  She  seemed  to  him  to  be 
divided  from  him  already  by  miles,  by  hours. 

He  could  just  make  out  her  footprints  in  the  damp 
sand.  Each  mark  was  already  beaded  with  moisture. 
He  touched  the  first  one  he  saw,  and  was  vaguely 


126  THE  BRIDGE 

shocked  to  find  it  so  cold.  It  seemed  that  any  sign 
she  had  left  for  him  should  be  warm.  It  made  him 
think  that  she  was  cold;  and  he  was  troubled  for  her, 
out  in  the  mist  in  her  thin  silken  gown. 

He  began  to  call  her  softly,  but  the  mist  returned  to 
him  his  own  voice  only;  and  the  sound  was  strange. 
Everything  was  unreal,  disguised.  He  saw  trees 
move  in  their  places,  and  vapors  lift  like  rocks. 
Every  poplar  bush  was  Sombra,  the  foolish  child, 
crouching  in  her  golden  gown,  weeping  because  he 
had  laughed  at  her  rough  shoes.  He  called  again, 
and  heard  no  answer  but  the  piping  of  a  peewit  in 
the  clear  moonlit  air  above  the  fog. 

He  came  to  the  edge  of  the  lake.  In  their  silence 
the  lakes  are  more  dumb  than  the  sea.  Not  a  feather 
of  foam  curled  by  the  water's  rim.  But  every  now 
and  then  this  rim  advanced  and  receded  a  few  inches, 
as  though  the  lake  breathed  in  its  sleep. 

Maclear  turned  from  the  beach.  He  had  lost  her 
footprints  in  the  stones.  He  climbed  a  high  dune 
until  his  head  and  shoulders  emerged  from  the 
strange  level  mist.  He  saw  it  all  about,  in  some 
places  even  as  ice,  in  others  heaped  in  enormous  and 
visionary  undulations.  The  sky  was  clear  and  cold, 
the  moon  brilliant;  he  saw  a  night-hawk  flutter  across 
the  gold  disk.  He  saw  nothing  else. 

He  climbed  down  the  dune  and  went  on,  walking 
in  a  pearly  circle,  an  impalpable  prison  not  four 


THE  MIST  127 

feet  across.  It  shut  him  in,  and  it  shut  Sombra  out- 
side. He  could  not  escape  it.  He  began  to  call 
her  more  loudly.  He  stopped  and  listened,  but 
could  hear  nothing  but  the  thud  of  his  own  heart. 
He  could  not  find  her,  nor  she  him. 

Perhaps,  lost  in  the  mist  somewhere,  she  was 
afraid;  perhaps  she  was  calling  him,  as  he  was  call- 
ing her.  He  looked  eagerly  for  more  footprints. 
His  circle  of  dimness  gave  him  only  the  sand,  the 
gleam  of  water,  ground  willows  showing  a  few  fiery 
leaves,  and  pods  of  milkweed  spilling  a  stuff  like 
mist.  It  hurt  Maclear  intolerably  that  she  should  be 
calling  to  him  for  help,  perhaps,  for  the  first  time, 
and  that  he  should  not  hear. 

Again  and  again  he  ran  and  stretched  out  his  hand 
to  a  golden  gleam;  again  and  again  that  hand  closed 
on  mist  and  glittering  wet  poplar  leaves,  pointed 
with  rime.  Again  and  again  some  rustle  or  faint  stir 
led  him  knee-deep  among  the  rank  sedges  and  the 
dripping  reeds,  only  to  see  an  owl  rise,  to  hear  a 
muskrat  plunge,  or  to  face  his  own  shadow  on  the 
moonlit  mist. 

Fears,  vague  and  enormous  as  the  shadows  of  the 
fog,  possessed  him.  He  saw  her  fallen  into  a  lagoon 
in  her  golden  gown  among  the  late  golden  water- 
lilies.  He  saw  her  running  from  him,  turning  to 
him  a  face  of  reproach  and  fear.  He  saw  her  hid- 
ing from  him,  unwilling  to  be  found.  He  knew  these 


128  THE  BRIDGE 

fears  for  folly.  But  the  fog,  his  own  lostness,  and 
the  face  he  could  not  see,  typified  for  him,  as  in  a 
brief  strange  dream,  his  life  without  her. 

"Sombra,  Sombra,  where  are  you?     Answer  me!" 

At  last  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  silver  obscurity 
faintly  replied. 

"Sombra!     Love,  where  are  you?" 

He  waited,  very  still.  He  heard,  drawn  slowly 
through  the  intervening  mists,  his  name. 

"Oh,  Alan,  dearest,  I  'm  sorry,  sorry,  sorry!" 

She  had  had  no  other  words  since  she  ran  to  him 
in  the  mist,  and  clung  as  she  had  never  clung  before. 

"Sombra,  I  felt  as  if  I  'd  lost  you  for  good.  I — 
could  n't  find  you — " 

"Oh,  my  poor  boy!  but  I  'm  sorry." 

"Never  run  away  again,  beloved,  so  that  I  can't 
find  you." 

"Never,  dear,  never.     Unless — " 

"Well,  my  own  girl?" 

"It  would  do  you  good  for  me  to  run  away!" 

"As  though  it  ever  could!" 

They  laughed  softly,  there  in  the  white  dumb  mist, 
— never  so  dear,  each  to  each. 

"Forgive  me,  Alan." 

"Me,  too,  Sombra.  I  did  n't  mean  to  be  unkind 
when  I  laughed." 

"You  was  n't  unkind.  It  was  me  bein'  so  silly. 
It  only  hurt  because — because — " 


THE  MIST  129 

"What,  heart  of  gold?" 

"Because  I  'm  far  beneath  you,  Alan." 

He  went  on  his  knees,  there  in  the  mist,  and  kissed 
the  clumsy,  sandy  shoes  he  had  laughed  at. 

He  said  no  more  to  her,  nor  she  to  him,  as  they 
found  their  way  home  together.  But  that  night  she 
woke  where  she  lay  beside  him,  hearing  him  again 
call  her  name.  As  she  listened,  there  in  the  dark,  she 
knew  that  once  more  in  his  sleep  he  lost  her,  sought 
her,  longed  for  her  with  an  infinite  longing.  His 
soul  was  bared  to  her.  Awed,  she  crept  to  his  arms, 
and  those  arms  closed  on  her,  though  he  did  not  wake. 
She  heard  the  wild  beating  of  his  heart,  and  knew 
bejyond  cjoubt  that,  from  whatever  cause,  it  beat 
indeed  only  for  her. 

She  was  only  a  girl,  given  to  love  too  young.  She 
had  doubted,  wondering  if  she  had  given  too  much, 
or  if  she  could  give  enough.  She  doubted  no  more. 
The  doors  of  her  great  heart  of  compassion  opened 
wide  for  him.  She  could  give,  though  she  could 
not  understand.  And  she  knew  now  that  he  needed 
all  she  could  give,  and  more  than  anything  else  in 
the  world. 

She  began  to  be  perfectly  happy.  She  knew  that 
his  need  of  her  would  never  fail.  The  knowledge 
was  like  a  star,  above  any  possible  shadowing  of  the 
mists,  either  of  death  or  life. 


130  THE  BRIDGE 

IV 

Sometimes,  in  the  misty  dawns  of  autumn,  Mac- 
lear  borrowed  an  old  bird-gun  of  Mail's,  and  went 
shooting  along  the  interminable  reed  beds,  where 
sheltered  ringneck,  bluebill,  and  whistlewing.  In  his 
new-found  security  was  room  for  a  fresh  delight 
each  hour.  The  chill  silence  of  those  mornings 
charmed  him,  lying  hidden  by  the  lagoons  under 
an  old  tarpaulin,  watching  the  mists  heave  and  ripple 
away,  and  the  wet  dunes  glitter  in  the  sudden  heat- 
less  sun;  the  moment  when  the  first  string  of  wild 
duck  arrowed  lakeward  through  the  haze,  and  he 
sprang  erect,  careless  of  how  many  he  scared,  and  the 
crack  of  his  shot  and  the  whirling  tumble  from  the 
sky  seemed  simultaneous;  and  he  waded  thigh-deep, 
perhaps,  to  retrieve  the  pretty  limp-necked  thing, 
through  bronzing  lily-pads,  and  seed-vessels  of  the 
lesser  iris,  and  leaves  of  arrowhead.  Then  he 
would  turn  homeward  in  the  gradual  widening  of 
the  world  the  fog  had  made  so  narrow,  while  day 
descended  on  him  and  his  like  a  dove,  whose  wings 
were  of  silver  and  her  feathers  like  gold. 

Day  after  day  followed  in  a  timeless  course  of  con- 
tent. Still  no  word  had  come  to  him  from  the  city. 
The  mist  and  the  lonely  miles  of  blue  water  seemed 
like  a  wall,  holding  Tallis  Island  with  all  upon  it  as 
Maclear  would  fain  have  held  it,  apart  from  the 
world. 


THE  MIST  131 

But  there  came  a  morning  when  the  mist,  rolling 
off  the  lake,  showed  Maclear  a  small  launch  sheering 
through  the  woolly  cloud  toward  the  island.  And  he 
knew  that  some  word  from  his  other  life  was  come 
for  him  at  last. 

Whatever  that  word  should  be,  he  was  strong  to 
meet  it.  Carrying  a  brace  of  whistlewings,  the  dew 
of  their  last  feeding-ground  still  on  their  feathers,  he 
went  down  to  the  landing-stage  on  the  lagoon  below 
Morning  House,  whither  the  launch  was  steering. 

On  the  lagoon  the  mist  yet  hung.  As  Maclear 
waited  on  the  stage,  gun  on  arm  and  cloaked  in  the 
old  tarpaulin,  it  turned  suddenly  from  white  to  rose. 
There  was  no  division  between  the  rosy  water  and 
the  rosy  fog.  The  little  launch,  her  engines  shut  off, 
floated  silently  the  last  few  yards  of  her  journey,  as 
though  borne  up  in  the  heart  of  a  cloud.  There  was 
a  complete  silence,  like  a  spell.  The  two  men  in  her 
were  silent,  looking  up  at  Maclear;  he  was  silent, 
looking  down  at  them.  Then  one  of  them  stood  up 
and  caught  the  dripping  edge  of  the  stage,  and  drew 
the  launch  in.  He  nodded  to  Maclear.  The  other 
man  rose  and  jumped  out  on  the  boards  beside  him, 
and  said,  "Alan." 

It  was  Raynham. 

They  shook  hands.  They  had  not  seen  each  other 
since  those  last  nightmare  days  in  the  city.  They 
examined  each  other  in  a  curious  silence.  Maclear's 


132  THE  BRIDGE 

eyes  were  steady  and  hard.  Raynham's  were 
strangely  timid.  At  last  he  drew  a  long  breath  and 
looked  uncertainly  away.  He  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"You  're  lookin'  well,  Alan." 

"I  was  never  better  in  my  life,  Jack." 

Raynham  looked  at  him  again.  His  own  face  was 
tired,  and  showed  the  effect  of  strain.  There  was  an 
odd,  startled  expression  in  his  eyes  that  made  them 
for  an  instant  like  Moira's  eyes.  He  glanced  away 
again,  saying  hurriedly:  "Yes — yes,  you  've  had  a 
good  rest.  And  more.  Mrs. — "  he  stumbled  a 
moment — "Mrs.  Gordon  told  me  she  'd  seen  her." 

"Yes,  she  saw  my  wife,"  agreed  Maclear. 

"Why  did  n't  you  tell  us  about  it,  Alan?"  asked 
Raynham,  suddenly. 

"I  don't  know,  Jack,  unless" — Maclear's  voice 
changed — "it  was  on  the  greedy  impulse  of  keeping 
the  best  things  all  to  oneself  a  while!" 

"Anyway,  I  congratulate  you.  Mrs.  Gordon  said 
she  was  very  sweet  and  beautiful.  I  wish  you  happi- 
ness, old  fellow.  And  if  I  'm  late  in  wishing  it,  it 's 
not  my  fault." 

Maclear's  hand  touched  his  shoulder  an  instant. 
"Thanks,  Jack,"  he  said;  "you  wish  me  no  more  than 
I  have." 

"No."  Again  Raynham's  look  rested  on  him 
strangely.  "No.  I  see  that  I  don't." 

"Come  up  to  the  house  with  me.     Breakfast  will 


THE  MIST  133 

be  about  ready, — lake-trout,  Jack,  and  you  '11  see 
her,"  finished  Maclear,  simply. 

Raynham's  eyes  warmed.  He  seized  Maclear's 
hand  again  and  wrung  it  hard.  "Bless  you,  any- 
way," he  stammered.  "I  '11  come  up  to  the  house 
with  pleasure,  but  I  guess  I  'd  better  not  stop  for 
breakfast.  I  came  down  by  the  night  train,  and  I 
ought  to  catch  an  early  one  back." 

"Did  you  come  to  fetch  me  back  with  you?"  asked 
Maclear,  directly. 

"No.  I  came  to  bring  you  news."  He  looked 
round  with  that  odd  air  of  uneasiness,  of  hesitation. 
"Where  can  we  talk  alone?" 

"Anywhere  on  the  island,"  said  Maclear. 

The  mist  had  cleared.  Tallis  Island  lay  bare 
under  the  open  heavens,  a  lovely  desolation  of  gleam- 
ing sand  and  yellowing  poplars,  interlaced  with 
a  hundred  winding  waterways.  Raynham  looked 
about  him  curiously,  then)  at  Maclear.  He  said, 
"You  chose  a  lonely  place,  Alan." 

"Yes.  I  could  n't  have  chosen  a  better  one, 
though.  I  owe  you  a  great  deal,"  he  went  on,  facing 
Raynham,  "for  carrying  on  the  job,  and  leaving  me 
here.  I  owe  you — everything." 

"Oh,  that 's  all  right,"  said  Raynham,  with  con- 
straint, turning  away  again. 

Maclear  said  to  the  man  in  the  launch:  "This  gen- 
tleman won't  be  ready  to  go  back  to  town  yet.  Tie 


134  THE  BRIDGE 

your  boat  and  go  up  to  the  house  and  have  your 
breakfast.     Tell  the  lady  I  sent  you." 

"Right,  Mister,"  said  the  man,  cheerily,  looking  at 
Maclear  with  a  frank  inquisitiveness.  "I  know  'em, 
up  to  the  hotel.  I  seen  her  go  back  and  forwards 
with  the  ole  feller  since  she  was  so  high." 

He  climbed  out,  tied  the  launch,  and  went  up  to 
Morning  House.  Maclear  linked  his  arm  in  his 
friend's  and  drew  him  along  the  sandy  path  beside  the 
lagoon. 

They  walked  on  for  a  time  in  silence.  Much  lay 
between  them  that  it  was  difficult  to  bridge.  But  the 
restraint  was  all  on  Raynham's  side. 

He  asked  at  last,  "How 's  the  business?" 

"Oh! — so-so.  We  've  been  havin'  trouble  with 
Sayers  and  Company  over  the  blue-prints.  I  think  it 
would  pay  us  to  fix  up  a  room  and  do  our  own. 
We  Ve  plenty  of  power." 

"Well — when  do  you  want  me  back,  Jack?" 

"Not  till  you  're  ready  to  come."  Raynham  did 
not  look  at  him. 

"I  think  I  must  come  soon.  I  '11  bring  my  wife 
with  me.  We  can  stay  at  a  boarding-house  till  we 
find  a  home  of  our  own.  You  '11  send  the  schooner 
for  us,  won't  you?  It 's — just  a  fancy  of  mine. 
She  brought  me  here — broken.  Let  her  take  me 
back — healed.  You  've  been  a  good  friend  to  me, 
Jack." 


THE  MIST  135 

"I  wonder,"  said  Raynham,  just  above  his  breath, 
and  after  a  long  pause,  "if  I  have — " 

Maclear  scarcely  heard.  In  a  little  while  he 
asked  quietly,  "What  news  of  my  sister-in-law?" 

"Oh,  all  right,"  answered  Raynham,  in  an  absent 
voice.  "She 's  gone  south  for  her  health,  as  you 
know." 

"Alone?" 

"No.     With  my  mother  and  sister." 

"That 's  good,"  said  Madeaf,  heartily.  Again 
that  strange,  incredulous  look  of  Raynham's  rested 
on  him,  but  so  briefly  he  was  not  aware  of  it.  Rayn- 
ham did  not  answer.  He  had  his  own  thoughts,  his 
own  hopes.  Especially  he  hoped  that  after  time  had 
a  little  soothed  her  Moira  might  one  day  give  him,  if 
not  her  love,  the  right  to  love  her.  He  asked  for  no 
more.  And  if  it  ever  came,  it  would  not  come  for 
years.  He  kept  his  lonely  hope  to  himself. 

Suddenly  Maclear  turned  on  him  and  looked  at 
him  full.  "Jack,"  he  said,  "when  is  the  inquiry  to 
be  held?" 

With  an  abrupt  movement  Raynham  swung  away 
from  him  and  went  to  the  edge  of  the  lagoon.  He 
stood  there  a  minute,  staring  down  into  the  soft  shal- 
low water,  where  the  brown  snail-shells  crept  in  the 
brown  sand,  among  the  roots  of  bur-reed  and  cat- 
tail and  touch-me-not.  His  face  was  white  and  heavy 
as.  he  turned  back  to  Maclear. 


136  THE  BRIDGE 

"Alan,"  he  said,  "there  's  not  goin'  to  be  any  in- 
quiry." 

They  stood  facing  each  other;  for  a  minute  they 
scarcely  seemed  to  breathe.  Then  Maclear,  with  an 
inarticulate  exclamation,  said  unsteadily,  "Say  that 
again." 

His  hardness  and  strength  seemed  transferred  to 
Raynham.  Raynham  answered  at  once:  "The  in- 
quiry, to  the  best  of  my  belief,  is — shelved." 

After  a  time  Maclear  whispered,  "How?" 

Raynham  looked  away.  He  asked  harshly,  "Do 
you  remember  what  papers  they  were  that  pressed  for 
the  inquiry?" 

"No."  ' 

"They  were  the  'Morning  Leader,'  and  the 
'Echo,'  and  the  'City  News.'  " 

"All  owned  by  Ducroix?" 

"Exactly.  All  owned,  and  their  policy  dictated, 
by  one  man." 

"Well?"     But  Maclear  knew. 

"I  tried  to  buy  Ducroix  off — Do  you  want  all  the 
dirty  details?"  asked  Raynham,  almost  savagely. 

"No.  No,  Jack,  no!"  And  Maclear's  voice  was 
almost  a  cry  of  appeal. 

"I  could  n't  offer  him  a  big  enough  price.  But  you 
can't  knock  around  with  the  same  men  in  the  same 
city  all  your  life  without  hearing  things  about  every 
one  of  'em.  I  knew  things  about  Ducroix  and  the 


THE  MIST  137 

election  five  years  ago  at  Rochard  Bay.  I  found  a 
man  who  knew  more  than  I  did.  I  could  n't  buy 
Ducroix  or  his  rags,  but  I  bought  him.  I  told 
Ducroix  that  if  he  did  n't  drop  the  question  of  the 
inquiry,  and,  what  was  more,  withdraw  all  he  'd  said, 
I  'd  take  my  man  to  Bassett  of  the  'Clarion'  and  let 
him  tell  his  little  tale  and  show  his  proofs,  too.  And 
then,  I  said,  'How  about  it?'  Ducroix  climbed  right 
down.  Had  to.  I  've  the  papers  in  my  pocket,  if 
you  want  to  see  how  thorough  it  is." 

"No."  To  himself  Maclear  was  repeating  words 
that  had  a  familiar  sound:  "It's  done  every  day, 
after  all." 

Raynham  was  silent,  gazing  grimly  at  the  golden 
poplar  spires  mirrored  in  the  lagoon.  Maclear 
gazed  too.  Neither  saw  the  beauty  of  the  world. 
Between  it  and  them  a  mist  had  risen. 

Maclear  said  at  last,  "Then,  there  's  nothing — " 

"There 's  nothing,"  agreed  Raynham,  in  a  low 
voice,  "for  you  to  fear." 

"Thanks  to  you." 

There  was  no  answer.  And  that  silence  showed 
Maclear  what  his  friend  had  done  for  him,  and  at 
what  cost.  He  was  suddenly  and  incredibly  hurt  by 
the  knowledge.  Moira's  grief  had  not  moved  him 
in  any  degree  like  this.  He  said  roughly:  "Fear? 
Fear?  By  God,  Jack,  I  wish  you  'd  left  it  alone, — 
let  them  bring  an  inquiry  if  they  'd  wanted  to!"  He 


138  THE  BRIDGE 

hesitated  a  moment;  for  how  much  did  Jack  know? 
Then  he  finished  through  his  teeth,  "I  could  have 
faced  it." 

And  at  the  word  a  white  face  he  hardly  knew  for 
Raynham's  was  looking  into  his  own.  He  felt  Rayn- 
ham's  hand  shake  on  his  wrist. 

"Yes,"  said  Raynham,  very  low,  "you  could  face 
it.  God  knows  how.  But  I  could  n't." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Jack?"  asked  Maclear 
quickly. 

"An  inquiry  on  oath?  Think.  I  might  have  had 
to  be  a  witness  against  you." 

After  a  while  Maclear  said,  "Then  you  Ve  known 
all  along?" 

"All  along.  I  'd  nothing  to  go  on,  of  course.  I 
just — knew." 

"And  all  along  you  Ve  stood  by  me  like  this?" 

"I  was  so  dammed  sorry  for  you,"  explained  Rayn- 
ham, wearily.  "Do  you  understand?" 

"I  understand  what  you  Ve  done  for  me — a  thing 
you  hate.  After  all,  it 's  done  every  day." 

Maclear  had  not  meant  to  say  this.  The  words 
came  unawares,  as  if  something  stronger  than  him- 
self had  spoken  with  his  lips.  And  Raynham  turned 
with  a  gesture  of  revolt. 

"This  kind  of  thing — it's  been  done  too  often 
by  one  of  us,  anyway.  And  it  was  always  a  case 


THE  MIST  139 

of  follow-my-leader  with  me,  even  when  we  were  at 
school." 

"Have  you  come  to  quarrel  with  me  now?" 

"No,"  said  Raynham  after  a  pause,  "for  I  'm 
still  damned  sorry  for  you." 

Maclear  looked  at  Raynham's  averted  face  curi- 
ously. There  was  something  inexplicable  in  this 
compassion,  something  that  had  not  been  there  in 
those  black  days  in  the  city.  Raynham  seemed,  in 
some  extraordinary  way,  sorrier  for  him  now  than  he 
had  been  then.  A  spark  of  resentment  burned  at  the 
back  of  Maclear's  mind.  They  meant  well.  They 
all  meant  well;  but  if  only  they  'd  let  him  forget!  if 
only  they  would  not  perpetually  remind  him,  with 
tlheir  forgiveness,  by  their  conscious  loyalty,  that 
there  was  anything  to  forgive  or  to  endure! 

He  could  have  faced  the  inquiry.  He  smiled  as 
the  realization  of  his  own  strength  and  his  own  se- 
curity swept  over  him.  He  said  quietly:  "Well — 
what 's  done  is  done.  Send  the  old  Marline  for  me 
when  you  get  back.  And  then  you  'd  better  go  for 
a  holiday  yourself.  You  're  looking  used  up.  You 
need  a  rest.  Nothing  like  a  rest  to  show  a  man  the 
— the  rights  of  things.  When  you  get  back  we  '11 
start  over  again,  Jack,  as  though  all  this  had  never 
been." 

His  voice  sank.     For  a  minute  the  sense  of  what 


140  THE  BRIDGE 

had  been  rose  like  a  wave,  and  the  deep  waters  of 
remembrance  went  over  him.  He  set  his  teeth  and 
endured  it;  such  moments  must  come.  There  was  no 
sound  but  the  long  inextinguishable  sigh  of  the  reeds. 

"There  was  something  else  I  came  to  tell  you." 

"Well,  Jack?" 

"Gorings  and  Willett  have  offered  me  a  post.  I 
would  like  to  accept  it  as  early  next  year  as  you  can 
fill  my  place." 

After  a  long  silence  Maclear  asked,  rather  breath- 
lessly, "Do1  you  mean  you  're  going  to — quit  me?" 

Raynham  nodded  slowly,  staring  over  the  blue 
water  with  unseeing  eyes.  There  was  a  tired  finality 
about  him  that  held  Maclear  dumb.  He  knew  Jack 
had  made  up  his  mind. 

He  asked  curtly,  "Do  you  feel  like  giving  me  your 
reasons?" 

"You  would  n't  appreciate  them." 

"Very  well."  Maclear's  hard  pride  was  on  fire. 
"I  won't  ask  you  for  them.  But — after  all  these 
years!" 

"I  know."  Raynham's  voice  was  gentle,  infinitely 
sad.  "It  seems  queer.  You  know  it  ain't  the 
money.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  '11  get  less  with 
them."  He  looked  at  Maclear  wistfully.  "It 's  not 
as  if  you  needed  me,  Alan,"  he  said.  "I  would 
never  quit  you  while  you  needed  me.  But  you  don't. 
You  can  get  along  without  me." 


THE  MIST  141 

"I  guess  I  can." 

Raynham  looked  at  him  again,  wonderingly. 
And  again  he  nodded  to  himself.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  to  himself,  "it 's  that  way  with  you."  Then, 
aloud:  "Well,  I  guess  I  '11  be  getting  back.  I  '11  send 
the  schooner  for  you  pretty  soon,  but  there's  no 
hurry." 

He  turned,  and  silently  they  walked  back  to  the 
launch.  Maclear  did  not  again  ask  Raynham  to  go 
to  the  house;  and  Raynham,  his  errand  done,  seemed 
eager  to  get  away.  Maclear  felt  that  their  comrade- 
ship was  drawing  to  a  close;  that  never  again  would 
things  be  as  they  had  been  between  himself  and  Rayn« 
ham.  Raynham  was  swayed  by  motives  to  which  he 
had  lost  the  clue,  emotions  he  did  not  share;  his 
security  and  happiness  served  in  some  strange  way  to 
separate  him  from  Raynham  as  they  had  from 
Moira. 

But  he  was  so  safe  he  did  not  greatly  care.  Only, 
as  they  waited  on  the  wharf  till  the  launch  should 
start,  he  touched  Raynham's  shoulder. 

"Jack,"  he  whispered,  "why— ?" 

"Is  it  possible,"  said  Raynham,  sadly,  "that  you 
don't  understand?" 

"If  you  've  known — all  along — I  don't  see  why 
you  should  want  to  quit  me  now." 

"Don't  you?  I  knew  you  both,  Alan.  I  loved 
you  both.  And — it  just  breaks  my  heart  to  see  you.'9 


142  THE  BRIDGE 

The  man  came  down  from  Morning  House  at  a  run, 
wiping  his  mouth  on  the  back  of  his  hand.  He  cast 
off  the  rope  and  started  the  engine.  Raynham 
sprang  in.  He  did  not  say  anything  more,  nor  did 
Maclear. 

A  shadow  was  on  Maclear  for  a  moment,  like  a 
mist  across  his  sun.  He  was  still  groping  for  that 
clue,  that  lost  key-note,  when  the  launch  was  no  more 
than  a  speck  out  on  the  lake.  He  walked  slowly 
back  to  Morning  House,  hurt,  angry,  and  supremely 
puzzled.  Why  should  any  man  stick  to  another  in 
trouble  and  desert  him  in  security? 

At  the  head  of  the  veranda  steps  Sombra  was  wait- 
ing for  him.  Seeing  her,  he  quickened  his  pace. 
The  doubt  and  the  shadow  passed.  Let  them  all  go. 
He  was  safe.  He  was  secure.  He  saw  her  like  the 
very  future  itself,  sunlit,  strong,  fruitful;  behind  her, 
like  the  past  wreckage  of  his  own  life,  was  the  ruin  of 
Morning  House.  But  he  need  think  of  it  never  again. 

Their  faces  were  to  the  sun.  He  could  never  lose 
her.  0  God!  how  safe  he  was! 


Day  after  day,  the  great  companies  of  birds  passed 
over  Tallis  Island,  flying  south. 

There  was  no  other  sign  of  the  waiting  winter. 
The  weather  was  warm  and  still.  The  brazen  shafts 


THE  MIST  143 

of  the  poplars,  the  burning  torches  of  the  ground 
willows,  were  reflected  unshaken  in  the  blue  lagoons; 
they  seemed,  in  their  splendor,  to  be  waiting  for 
another  consummation  like  that  of  their  spring,  not 
for  decay. 

But  to  the  mysterious  communal  senses  of  the 
birds  a  summons  had  come.  Something  had  stirred 
in  the  North.  Something  had  called  in  the  South. 
They  listened  and  followed  in  hundreds  and  thou- 
sands,— kinglets,  tanagers,  bobolinks,  whitethroats, 
sheathed  in  dull  feathers  for  this  flight.  One  day 
the  island  was  full  of  their  voices,  also  grown  strange 
and  songless;  the  next,  they  were  gone,  and  another 
company  had  taken  their  place. 

The  big  blue-shouldered  swallows  that  Sombra 
loved  had  gone  early  and  silently  from  the  sand- 
hills. But  the  little  black-and-white  ones  gathered 
along  the  marshes,  filled  the  air  for  four  days  with 
their  bubbling  chatter;  on  the  fifth,  as  at  a  signal, 
lifted  and  wheeled  above  the  island,  leveled,  and 
were  gone  also.  Sombra,  watching  them  go,  felt  that 
they  took  with  them  the  blossom  of  the  year. 

In  a  little  while  there  seemed  no  birds  left  living 
on  Tallis  Island  but  the  herring-gulls,  a  few  crows, 
and  the  great  horned  owl  which  they  saw  sometimes 
hawking  silently  along  the  lagoons,  the  spirit  of  in- 
satiable hunger  in  noiseless  feathers.  And  at  night 
the  tremendous  starlit  spaces  above  the  mists  were 


144  THE  BRIDGE 

threaded  through  with  the  tiny  traveling-calls  of  the 
thistle-birds. 

Sombra,  listening  at  the  door  of  the  house  to 
these  faint  heroic  pipings  in  the  void,  felt  tears  sud- 
denly in  her  eyes.  She  was  moved  to  the  deepest 
springs  of  her  awakening  nature;  in  her  soul,  also, 
she  seemed  to  hear  the  echo  of  little  voices,  lost,  wan- 
dering in  the  night.  She  felt  as  though  the  arms  of 
her  spirit  were  great  enough,  tender  enough,  to  fold 
all  the  small  homeless  things  of  creation,  to  draw 
them  down  to  her,  to  make  them  hers. 

She  turned  to  Maclear,  saying  softly,  "Oh,  the 
poor  little  birds!" 

"They  '11  reach  the  South,  all  right." 

"Not  all."  For  the  first  time  she  thought  of  those, 
the  little  ones,  the  weak  ones,  who  would  fall  by 
the  way. 

He  had  been  standing  on  the  step  behind  her,  in 
the  lighted  doorway.  Now  he  came  down  to  her, 
and  put  his  arm  about  her.  They  stood  together, 
their  faces  upturned,  listening  to  those  faint  cryings 
in  the  night,  the  voices  of  life,  feeble,  mysterious, 
irresistible. 

When  her  voice  again  reached  him  it  was  a 
whisper,  a  breath  of  the  night: 

"They  're  goin',  like  the  minutes,  the  hours  of 
this  summer.  Once — do  you  remember,  Alan? — I 
said  I  would  like  to  keep  them,  to  hold  them  in  my 


THE  MIST  145 

hands,  so  the  time -would  never  go.     I  can't  do  that. 
But—" 

"Well,  dear  heart?" 

He  felt  her  strong  life  thrill  within  his  arm.  But 
her  voice  was  like  the  lost,  whispering  voices 
of  the  traveling  birds  as  she  said,  "Those  hours,  those 
minutes,  they  was  lovely  to  me." 

"And  to  me." 

"They  're  goin',  goin'.  But  maybe  they  're  leavin' 
somethin'  behind  for  us — somethin'  lovelier  than 
them." 

It  was  her  pride  that  at  last  made  him  understand. 
But  when  he  would  have  spoken  she  turned  and  laid 
her  warm  young  hand  across  his  lips.  "Oh,  my  dear 
love,"  she  said,  "don't  speak.  There  's  nothing  left 
to  be  said  between  us  two.  For  you  're  to  be  the 
father  o'  my  little  child." 

Lost  in  darkness,  the  golden  birds  passed  over 
them,  crying  to  one  another.  And  Mait  Ransome, 
who  had  been  standing  behind  them  in  the  open  door- 
way, turned  back  into  the  room  and  went  to  his  place. 

Salvator  asked,  "Is  Sombra  out  there  yet?" 

After  a  long  time  Mait  replied,  "Aye,  she's  out 
there,  talkin'  to  Juan — " 

Maclear's  first  feeling,  perhaps,  was  one  of  an 
additional  security,  a  possessiveness  nothing  could 
question;  more  than  when  he  loved  her,  more  than 
when  he  married  her,  she  was  his. 


146  THE  BRIDGE 

VI 

The  soft  darkness  closed  around  Morning  House, 
concealing  all  that  day  revealed.  When  the  lights 
within  its  wall  went  out  one  by  one,  there  seemed  no 
division  between  the  house  and  its  surroundings;  the 
mist  lay  along  its  passages  as  it  lay  along  the  lagoon 
channels;  the  air  within  its  rooms  was  heavy  with 
the  chill,  sweet  marsh  smell;  the  faint  incessant 
whispers  of  its  decaying  fabric  were  one  with  the 
voices  of  the  water,  fingering  along  miles  and  miles 
of  lonely  and  tideless  sands. 

Later,  the  moon  rose;  but  the  mist  was  compassion- 
ate as  the  dark  had  been  to  Morning  House.  Its 
rows  of  empty  rooms  were  featureless  and  peaceful; 
filled  with  strands  and  webs  of  fog,  they  seemed  im- 
personal as  the  hollows  of  the  dunes.  Morning 
House  slept  with  the  substance  of  the  island  into 
which  it  was  resolving  year  by  year. 

But  an  hour  or  two  passed,  and  something  woke 
within  the  house.  It  was  something  mighty  and  yet 
imponderable,  enclosed  in  an  old  man's  body.  It 
filled  every  passage,  every  room.  The  walls  of 
Morning  House  seemed  distended,  ready  to  break, 
with  the  pressure  of  that  which  was  within  it. 

That  spirit  reached  out  to  Maclear's,  even  in  his 
sleep,  and  woke  him. 

At  first  he  thought  it  was  Sombra  who  had  called 


THE  MIST  147 

him.  But  she  was  asleep  still.  He  lay  and  listened 
and  stared  at  the  twilight  of  the  moon.  He  heard 
nothing,  he  saw  nothing.  Yet  in  a  little  while  he 
rose,  pulled  on  a  few  clothes,  opened  the  door,  and 
slipped  silently  from  the  room. 

Outside  stretched  the  long  decaying  passage, 
bleak  and  bare  with  its  rows  of  unused  doors.  It 
was  full  of  luminous  mist,  and  as  this  mist  lifted 
and  sank,  the  doors  and  the  walls  seemed  to  extend 
and  shrink  alternately,  with  a  small  movement  like  a 
pulsation.  It  was  as  if  Morning  House  throbbed  with 
fear. 

Maclear  saw  no  one.  Yet  he  knew  some  one  had 
just  passed  down  the  empty  passage.  He  walked 
quickly  to  the  end,  where  it  gave  on  another.  And 
as  he  went  the  mist  again  worked  its  impalpable 
magic.  In  a  moment  it  had  separated  him  from 
Sombra.  He  felt  that  he  would  have  to  grope  his 
way  back  through  immense  obstacles  of  time  and 
place,  though  their  room  was  but  just  behind  him. 

Half-way  down  the  second  passage,  a  shadow 
moved.  The  moonlight,  strained  through  softest  in- 
tervening fleeces,  played  with  the  shape  of  that 
shadow;  now  it  was  vague  as  a  cloud,  again,  sub- 
stantial as  a  man.  Maclear  knew  it  for  Mait  Ran- 
some. 

Standing  at  the  corner  of  the  wall,  he  watched. 
He  heard  a  soft  sound.  Mait  was  knocking  gently 


148  THE  BRIDGE 

at  the  door  of  one  of  those  unused  ruinous  rooms. 
He  heard  a  soft  whisper,  clear  enough  to  claim  the 
attention  of  a  drowsing  man,  light  enough  not  to 
awaken  a  man  who  slept  sound: 

"Be  you  sleepin',  Juan  Luz?" 

Noiseless  in  his  hare  feet,  Maclear  followed. 
That  spirit  darkly  housed  in  Mail's  flesh  drew  him 
in  its  wake  as  a  leaf  is  drawn  by  the  wind.  His 
breath  was  cold  in  his  mouth.  The  man  to  whom 
Mail  Ransome  whispered  had  slept  sound  for  nearly 
twenty  years. 

The  old  man  shuffled  on,  paused  at  another  door, 
and  softly  knocked.  Waiting  for  his  answer,  he 
leaned  his  head  to  the  crack,  and  listened  as  though 
for  the  breathing  of  a  man  asleep.  Then  he  passed 
on  to  a  third  door. 

"Be  you  asleep,  Juan?" 

Over  this  door  he  passed  his  hand,  with  a  whisper- 
ing sound  like  his  voice.  This  door  had  a  rusty 
latch,  and  he  found  and  pressed  it.  The  door 
yielded  with  a  creak.  It  gave  inch  by  inch  unwill- 
ingly, like  a  living  thing  on  guard.  Mait  entered 
the  room.  Such  was  the  conspiracy  between  his 
spirit  and  these  rotting  substances  that  Maclear  lis- 
tened for  a  noise,  a  voice,  a  cry.  He  heard  only  the 
sound  of  the  old  man's  hands  traveling  over  the 
walls  of  the  empty  room,  and  his  tread  retreating 
from  the  door  and  again  returning  to  it. 


THE  MIST  149 

Down  the  whole  length  of  that  passage  Mail 
knocked  at  the  doors  and  listened,  and  spoke  to  the 
dead.  And  Maclear  had  an  apprehension  of  some 
presence  that  waited  behind  all  the  doors,  and,  at 
the  right  time,  would  reply.  The  house  was  packed 
from  wall  to  wall  with  a  tremendous  intentness  which 
had  neither  eyes  nor  ears,  and  needed  none. 

When  Mait  came  to  the  end  of  the  second  passage, 
Maclear  was  by  his  side.  But  the  old  man  was  quite 
unaware  of  him.  And  Maclear  dared  not,  by  word 
or  touch,  divert  that  haunted  spirit.  He  followed  in 
silence,  feeling  his  own  personality  strangely  recede 
from  him,  sucked  into  that  far  past  which  was  the 
living  present  to  Mait  Ransome.  He  felt  himself 
the  ghost,  Juan  Luz  the  reality,  and  half  waited  for 
the  dead  to  answer. 

"Where  be  you,  Juan  Luz?" 

The  passage  ended  in  a  blank  wall.  The  old  man 
leaned  his  head  here,  and  his  hands  moved  blindly 
on  each  side  of  him.  The  breath  of  a  voice  came 
from  his  lips,  moaning  and  unmeaning  sounds  that 
shaped  themselves  gradually  to  speech.  "I  can't 
find  ye,  Juan,"  Maclear  heard.  And  then,  "The 
deep  water,  the  deep  water."  And  once  more: 
"Martha,  Martha,  ye  've  given  me  nothing,  though 
I  Ve  served  ye  seven  years  like  Jacob.  But  ye  '11 
give  this  come-by-night  a  child." 

Then  Maclear  knew  what  storm  it  was  that  had 


150  THE  BRIDGE 

driven  Mail  into  his  madness  on  this  calm,  night. 
Presently  the  old  man  turned  from  the  wall,  still 
with  that  ghostly  sobbing-out  of  wrong,  and  went 
past  Maclear,  and  back  along  the  passage  once  more. 
Maclear  followed  him. 

He  moved  now  more  swiftly,  and  did  not  pause  at 
any  door.  He  led  Maclear  up  the  broken  stairs  to 
the  second  story.  This  was  more  ruinous  than  the 
lower  one.  But  Maclear  came  here  sometimes,  for 
here  Salvator  had  his  room. 

Mail  Ransome  advanced  swiftly  along  the  upper 
hall.  The  roof  here  and  there  opened  on  moonlit 
mist,  through  which  a  few  stars  shone  blurred.  The 
flooring  gaped  here  and  there  on  blackness.  Mail 
avoided  these  places.  He  moved  now  quicker  and 
quicker,  as  though  he  could  see.  Maclear  followed. 
The  intentness  of  Morning  House  had  reached  a 
cracking-point.  He  was  aware  of  a  dumb,  intoler- 
able strain,  a  great  loneliness. 

He  was  glad  when  a  distant  sound  from  without 
drawled  to  him  through  miles  of  intervening  fog;  he 
knew  it  for  the  hand-siren  of  a  sailing-ship  far  out 
on  the  lake;  he  was  less  lonely  by  just  so  much  as 
that  sound,  which  was  presently  repeated. 

Mait  Ransome  was  going  slower  now,  hesitating 
before  the  doors.  Black  openings  gaped  in  many 
places,  where  the  doors  had  been  burned  for  firewood. 


THE  MIST  151 

Again  and  again  he  paused,  listened,  advanced.  He 
did  not  knock. 

He  stood  at  last  outside  the  door  behind  which 
Salvator  lay. 

Maclear  did  not  know  that  to  this  very  room  Juan 
Luz  had  been  carried  on  the  night  of  the  wreck. 
The  walls  knew  it,  the  rotting  floor  remembered,  the 
roof  proclaimed  it,  but  their  voices  were  silence  to 
him. 

Mail  Ransome  began  to  knock  at  the  door. 

The  sound  at  first  was  all  but  inaudible;  it  seemed 
a  tremor  in  the  substance  of  the  house  and  of  the 
mist  that  filled  it.  Then  it  grew  louder,  more  insis- 
tent. 

There  was  a  stir  within  the  room. 

Maclear  knew  it  was  Salvator  who  moved.  Yet 
for  a  moment  it  seemed  to  him  that  Mail  had  been 
knocking  at  the  door  of  a  grave,  and  that  the  dead  had 
heard. 

All  was  still,  except  for  the  muffled  and  distant 
sound  of  the  ship's  fog-Jiorn  far  out  on  the  lake. 
Morning  House  seemed  ready  to  crack  asunder  in  the 
stillness. 

Then  the  door  opened  and  Salvator  stood  before 
Mait. 

He  too  was  sucked  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind  of  that 
spirit.  Even  in  his  sleep  he  could  not  escape  it. 


152  THE  BRIDGE 

All  his  life,  all  his  dreams,  had  been  commanded  by 
one  event,  one  dread, — the  dread  and  event  of  an 
old  man's  madness. 

The  mist  laid  its  spell  upon  them  all.  It  seemed 
to  divide  Maclear  from  those  others,  as  from  Sombra, 
by  a  great  space  of  time  or  distance.  He  felt  as 
though  he  were  looking  at  a  repetition  of  something 
that  had  happened  years  and  years  ago;  a  visible 
flriemory;  a  reincarnated  hate.  Across  that  gi'eat 
gulf  he  watched,  motionless,  the  motion  of  shadows. 

Salvator  appeared  to  walk  in  a  dream.  His  wide 
eyes  were  fixed  on  Ma  it  with  an  inhuman  intensity 
of  Dear.  That  look  was  stamped  on  his  face  as 
though  the  fair  young  flesh  had  been  formed  only 
to  shadow  it  forth.  His  left  hand  was  raised  as  if 
in  defense,  his  right  was  hidden. 

Suddenly  Maclear's  attention  was  riveted  on  that 
hidden  right  hand.  He  advanced  softly  toward  the 
two  figures. 

As  he  moved  Mait  also  began  to  move,  with  his 
motion  exaggerated  by  the  mist,  inch  by  inch  toward 
Salvator.  And  as  he  advanced,  the  boy  went  inch  by 
inch  to  meet  him,  as  though  this  bodily  action  of 
Mail's  was  reflected  from  his  body  as  the  look  on 
Mail's  face  was  reflected  from  his  face.  They  were 
like  two  slraws  approaching  each  other  in  a  pool, 
and  were  drawn  togelher  by  an  equally  irresislible 
force. 


THE  MIST  153 

It  had  all  happened  years  and  years  before, 
thought  Maclear. 

Then,  without  warning,  the  boy  screamed  and 
struck. 

Some  sense  in  Maclear  had  outrun  the  event.  Be- 
fore Salvator's  right  hand  fell,  Maclear  was  there, 
and  had  caught  his  wrist.  As  he  leaped  forward  he 
shouted, — a  great  healthy  shout  that  shattered  the 
intolerable  attentiveness  of  Morning  House  as  glass 
cracks  at  a  blow. 

For  a  minute  he  had  all  he  could  do  to  hold  Sal. 
The  boy's  face  was  inhuman,  his  strength  inhuman. 
At  last  Maclear  mastered  that  right  arm,  drew  it 
down  and  gripped  it,  forced  open  the  fingers,  waited 
for  the  clatter  of  a  knife  on  the  boards. 

Nothing  fell.     The  hand  was  empty. 

Maclear  pinned  Salvator  against  the  wall,  staring 
into  his  face,  which  was  slowly  changing.  So 
strong  had  been  the  illusion  that  Maclear  could  have 
sworn  to  the  flash  of  a  long  blade  in  that  hand  when  it 
flew  up.  But  that  also  had  been  a  dream. 

He  waited  quietly.  At  last,  without  speaking,  he 
released  the  boy.  It  was  as  if  Salvator  had  but 
now  awakened.  He  leaned  back  against  the  wall, 
shaking  from  head  to  foot.  Maclear  laid  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  He  said  in  a  low  voice,  "It  was 
only  a  dream,  Sal." 

Black  horror  looked  from  the  young  eyes  into 


154  THE  BRIDGE 

his  own, — horror  and  a  shadow  of  fate.  "It 's  a 
dream  I  '11  never  escape!"  whispered  the  boy.  He 
hid  his  face  in  his  hands  and  began  to  sob. 

It  had  happened  very  quickly.  Maclear  left  him 
and  went  to  Mail  Ransome,  who  was  groping  vaguely 
about  the  doorway.  He  said,  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone:  "I  think  you  've  missed  your  way  about  the 
house,  Mr.  Ransome.  This  is  not  the  way  to  your 
room." 

The  dream  was  shattered.  For  that  time  the  spirit 
had  fled.  It  was  only  a  crazy  old  man  who  answered, 
mildly  and  wanderingly:  "Well,  you  don't  say  so! 
I  don't  rightly  remember  how  I  happened  to  come 
here,  but  I  ain't  where  I  meant  to  be,  that 's  straight. 
Well,  now,  ain't  that  queer?  And  where  is  my  room, 
sir?" 

"I  '11  take  you  to  it." 

He  did  so.  When  he  returned,  he  found  Sal's 
room  and  the  passage  empty.  He  went  back  to  his 
own  room. 

But  he  did  not  go  in. 

The  room  was  faintly  moonlit.  Sombra  still  slept. 
No  echo  of  fear  or  hate  had  called  her  in  her  sleep. 
She  had  not  waked.  But  she  had  moved. 

Sal  was  kneeling  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  his  face 
hidden.  He  had  not  awakened  her.  But  as  though 
mysteriously  aware  of  his  need,  through  some  awak- 
ening sense  within  herself,  she  had  stretched  out  her 


THE  MIST  155 

arm  and  encircled  him  in  it,  as  a  mother  encloses  a 
child  from  harm. 

Maclear  went  softly  away  for  awhile.  He  felt 
that  even  he  had  not  the  right  to  enter.  Not  for  the 
first  time  he  felt  himself  a  stranger,  outside  whatever 
fate  it  was  that  bound  so  closely  together  the  sister 
and  brother. 

When  he  stole  back,  Salvator  was  gone,  though 
Sombra  still  slept  with  her  hand  curved  protectively 
about  emptiness.  Maclear  kissed  the  arm  where  that 
wild  head  had  rested. 

The  moon  set.  Once  again  the  darkness  withdrew 
Morning  House  into  its  own  mercy. 

The  dawn  came  like  any  other  dawn  in  the  mist. 

They  learned  that  Mail  had  come  down  early, 
cooked  his  own  breakfast,  taken  a  sack,  and  gone  to 
gather  driftwood  along  the  beaches. 

The  event  of  the  night  had  left  Maclear  uneasy, 
full  of  a  foreboding  huge  and  vague  as  the  fog.  He 
did  not  voice  it  when  he  said,  "He  '11  get  lost  or  fall 
into  the  water." 

Sombra  said  pitifully,  for  the  old  man  who  had 
hardly  ever  given  her  even  a  word  of  kindness:  "You 
forget.  Dark  and  light,  fog  and  clear,  it's  all  one 
to  Mail." 

"Yes,"  he  agreed.  "I  forgot."  But  he  waited 
for  Mail's  return,  and  was  troubled  when  he  did 
not  come.  Later,  they  too  went  out. 


156  THE  BRIDGE 

vn 

Out  on  the  lake  the  Marline  Messier  lay  becalmed. 

Under  the  moon,  in  the  mist,  she  had  moved  like 
a  wraith.  When  the  moon  set,  the  mist  took  her,  re- 
solved her  into  itself.  She  almost  ceased  to  exist. 
Only  her  worn  gray  topsails  stood  clear  of  it,  and 
blotted  out  the  stars. 

Leaning  over  the  side,  Garroch  could  hear  but 
the  faintest  ghostly  voice  of  water.  He  could  see 
nothing.  The  schooner's  lights  were  blurred  by  the 
mist;  distance  was  so  lost  that  they  might  have  hung 
among  the  half-seen  stars. 

Now  and  then  the  noise  of  her  old  siren  jarred 
through  the  voiceless  quiet,  but  no  ship  replied.  It 
was  as  though  she  floated  outside  the  world,  outside 
life,  to  some  nameless  harbor  of  a  shadowy  sea. 

Garroch  hummed  softly  to  himself.  The  rime 
beaded  his  gray  eyelashes,  made  him  cough.  He 
lifted  his  hand  unconsciously  every  now  and  then  to 
brush  it  away.  He  wondered  what  was  the  sense  in 
keeping  a  watch  when  a  man  could  see  nothing. 
And  his  ears  were  not  so  good  as  they  had  been. 

Later,  he  went  to  the  hatch  and  called.  A  sleepy 
murmur  answered  him. 

"Come  up  here,  Ian." 

In  a  minute  his  nephew  joined  him,  a  drowsy-eyed, 


THE  MIST  157 

white-haired  boy  from  the  Scotch  Townships.  Gar- 
roch  said,  "Stand  here  on  the  deck  an'  listen." 

"I  'm  listeninV 

"D  'ye  hear  anything?" 

"Seems  like — almost — engines." 

"Stand  here.     Well?" 

"I  don't  hear  nothin'." 

Garroch  said,  "It 's  the  fog.  I  thought  I  heard 
engines,  too,  but  the  sound  comes  and  goes."  He 
melted  away  into  the  mist  forward,  and  presently  the 
little  fog-horn  bleated  like  a  lost  sheep,  and  bleated 
again.  There  was  no  reply.  Impossible  to  say  how 
far  the  noise  would  travel  on  such  a  night.  The  boy 
stayed  where  he  was,  awake  now,  and  shivering  in 
the  chill,  trying  to  pierce  the  white  darkness  with  his 
young  vision. 

By  and  by  he  called  sharply,  "Uncle!" 

"Aye,  Ian?" 

"I  have  the  sound  now.     It 's  closer." 

Garroch  ran  back  and  joined  him.  He  said,  "I 
don't  hear  it." 

"It 's  gone  again.  Just  as  if  there  was  a  door 
openin'  and  shuttin'." 

"It 's  the  fog.     I  've  known  it  before  like  this." 

"There!" 

"Aye,  I  heard  it  then,  Within  a  half-mile,  I 
reckon.  But  there 's  no  tellin'." 


158  THE  BRIDGE 

He  disappeared  once  more,  and  the  fog-horn 
wheezed  and  bleated;  but  the  night  returned  no 
answer.  The  boy  followed  him,  his  bare  feet  patter- 
ing along  the  wet  deck.  Between  blasts  of  the  siren, 
they  both  listened;  they  heard  the  drip  of  moisture 
falling  from  the  standing  rigging;  the  blood  ham- 
mered in  their  ears;  they  thought  the; hollows  of  the 
fog  gave  back,  as  it  were,  an  echo  of  this  drumming. 

Suddenly  Ian  shouted  again,  "There!" 

The  mysterious  doors  of  the  mist  had  opened. 
They  heard  the  beat  of  engines  plainly.  Garroch 
said,  "If  we  could  but  get  some  way  on  her! 
They  're  very  near.  They  're — " 

"Right  on  us!"  screamed  the  boy. 

As  though  some  solid  intervening  substance  had 
been  at  that  instant  withdrawn,  they  heard  the  en- 
gines, -saw  a  red  light  and  a  green  one,  like  little 
balls  of  colored  wool  in  the  *fog,  bearing  straight 
down  on  the  Marline's  starboard  quarter.  They 
jumped  to  the  side  and  shouted  wildly.  They  heard 
a  shout  in  answer;  the  beat  of  the  engines  altered, 
slowed;  a  little  the  lights  changed  line.  They 
waited.  Garroch  said  aloud,  "They  can't  clear  us." 

The  boy  sobbed  with  suspense  and  excitement. 

Then  a  shadowy  gleaming  bow  struck  the 
schooner,  with  a  gentle  thrusting  motion,  just  abaft 
the  mizzen  chains.  She  heeled  over  to  port.  The 
steamer's  bows,  coming  round,  scraped  slowly  along 


THE  MIST  159 

her  side  and  the  two  vessels  ground  their  length  to- 
gether, surged  on  with  a  strange  effect  of  leisureli- 
ness,  and  as  slowly  separated.  The  tug — it  was  a 
fishing-tug — backed  away,  and  immediately  vanished 
into  the  mist.  The  Marline  swung  and  settled  her- 
self once  more  on  a  level  keel. 

A  strange  voice,  extraordinarily  near,  though  the 
speaker  was  invisible,  drawled  through  the  fog, 
"That  was  a  close  call!" 

"Too  close.     Did  n't  you  hear  our  siren,  sonny?" 

"Thought  it  was  miles  away.     Say,  you  all  right?" 

"Guess  so." 

"So  are  we,  I  guess.  Better  have  a  look  at  that 
old  scow  of  yours.  I  '11  stand  by  a  while  if  you 
like." 

"No  need,"  answered  Garroch,  rather  indignantly; 
"she 's  all  right." 

"Sure?" 

"Sure." 

"I  '11  get  on,  then.     So  long!" 

"So  long! — Say,  you  aboard  the  tug!" 

"Hello!" 

"Don't  you  go  rammin'  Tallis  Island  in  the  dark, 
scootin'  about  like  you  was  an  automobile!" 

Dim  laughter  answered  from  the  invisible  tug. 
They  heard  the  ting  of  a  little  bell  in  the  mist,  the 
beat  of  the  sturdy  engines  slowly  receding.  Presently 
they  were  left  to  silence  again,  save  for  their  own 


160  THE  BRIDGE 

voices.  At  the  collision  the  other  men  had  come  up 
on  deck  and  they  now  stood  yawning  and  questioning 
Garroch. 

The  old  man's  nerve  had  been  a  little  shaken.  He 
told  the  event  garrulously.  Ian  said  nothing.  He 
was  still  listening,  aware  of  an  uneasy  stir,  some- 
where in  the  misty  world,  between  a  vibration  and  a 
sound. 

By  and  by  he  stooped  and  laid  his  hand  flat  on  the 
deck.  The  smallest  tremor  was  running  through  the 
wood,  as  though  the  Marline  were  sailing  on  a  light 
wind.  He  knelt,  and  laid  both  hands  to  the  deck. 
He  felt  that  it  was  rising  ever  so  little  to  port. 

"What 's  wrong  with  you,  boy?"  asked  Garroch, 
impatiently,  seeing  his  crouching  figure. 

Ian  did  not  answer.  He  jumped  up  and  ran  to 
the  side.  Standing  on  the  bulwarks,  he  caught  the 
shrouds  and  leaned  far  out. 

A  glimmer  of  water  under  the  mist — 

The  boy's  eyes  pierced  the  haze.  Suddenly  he 
leaped  back  on  the  deck  and  shouted  hoarsely. 

"She 's  goin'  down!"  he  screamed.  "She  's  go  in* 
down  under  us!  She's  goin'  down  all  standin'!" 

A  moment's  utter  silence.  Then,  "What?  What 's 
he  say?" 

"Sinkin'  under  us?" 

Two  or  three  shadows  plunged  to  the  side,  and 
leaned  out  as  Ian  had  done.  One  jumped  back  with 


THE  MIST  161 

a  frightened  oath.  "Settlin'!"  he  stammered. 
"She  's  settlin'  under  our  feet!  She  's  almost  awash 
now!  Boys,  I  could  'a'  set  my  feet  in  the  boat!" 

There  was  another  silence,  then  an  inarticulate 
shouting;  one  shouted  that  it  was  nonsense,  another 
bawled  after  the  tug;  in  a  moment  they  were  all  say- 
ing one  thing:  "The  boat!  Let 's  take  to  the  boat!" 

They  hesitated.  The  quietness  was  so  great  they 
could  not  believe  their  own  danger.  But  as  they 
paused,  the  deck  under  their  feet  seemed  to  give  an 
uneasy  shudder.  The  Marline  dipped  to  starboard, 
swung  slowly  back,  dipped  again.  A  trickle  of 
dark  water  slid  over  the  deck  from  one  side  to  the 
other. 

They  yelped  and  ran,  shaken  by  the  silence  and  the 
mist. 

The  boat  had  been  towing  astern.  The  collision 
had  driven  it  round  under  the  port  quarter.  They 
dropped  into  it  one  by  one,  talking  in  low,  scared 
whispers. 

"Been  on  the  lakes  forty  years.  Never  knowed 
the  like!" 

"The  boss  '11  be  real  mad.  He  was  set  on  the 
old  ship." 

"Got  the  sculls,  Levett?" 

"Aye,  aye.  Shove  off,  there.  Quick!  She's 
droppin'  like  a  stone." 

"Where 's  that  darned  tug?" 


162  THE  BRIDGE 

The  last  voice  ran  up  and  cracked.  Another 
asked,  "What  is  it,  anyway?" 

"Must  have  ripped  the  old  planks  clean  out  of 
her,  like  they  was  paper." 

"Pull,  boys!  Get  clear.  Feel  that?  There's  a 
wind  behind  the  fog." 

The  sculls  splashed  flurriedly.  They  pulled  away, 
chattering  nervously,  as  near  on  the  course  taken  by 
the  tug  as  they  could  guess  it.  They  shouted,  but 
there  was  no  reply.  In  a  minute,  looking  back,  no 
man  could  see  the  old  Martine,  nor  say  where  she 
had  been. 

In  a  little  while,  toward  dawn,  a  wind  began  to 
press  upon  the  mist,  and  the  vapor  began  to  flow  like 
water,  like  a  river,  interminably.  The  schooner's 
soft  gray  topsails  darkened  against  the  paling  sky; 
they  filled;  her  rigging  creaked;  water-logged,  she 
drifted  forward  under  the  last  stars. 

She  kept  afloat  until  day.  Then,  as  if  the  winds 
and  the  lake  were  consciously  gentle  with  her,  the 
beautiful  old  forsaken  thing,  she  went  ashore  softly, 
all  sails  standing,  on  the  sands  beyond  the  ledge  of 
Tallis  Island,  where  a  fruit-boat  from  the  Floridas 
had  been  wrecked  twenty  years  before. 

All  about  her  the  mist  changed  to  pearl,  to  a  silver 
and  silent  tide  flowing  past  without  ceasing.  It  did 
not  lift  with  the  day. 


THE  MIST  163 

VIII 

Sombra  was  walking  homeward  with  Maclear 
along  the  marshes.  He  carried  an  armful  of  drift- 
wood ;  she,  one  of  flowers  and  leaves, — silvery  yellow 
aspen  leaves,  blotched  with  black,  scarlet  ground 
willow,  late  goldenrod,  and  purple  asters.  Leaves, 
blossoms,  and  stems  were  covered  by  the  mist  with 
an  infinity  of  smallest  pearls. 

Their  hair,  their  eyebrows,  even  their  eyelashes 
were  whitened  with  the  mist.  Looking  at  Maclear, 
Sombra  laughed.  "Now  we  know  what  we  '11  look 
like  when  we  're  old,"  she  said.  Then  came  the  in- 
evitable woman's  question:  "Will  you  love  me  as 
much  when  I  'm  old,  Alan?" 

After  a  moment  he  said  with  passion:  "Young  or 
old,  sick  or  well,  living  or  dead,  Sombra,  you  hold 
me.  As  you  held  me  that  first  night  of  all,  you  '11 
hold  me  to  the  end." 

"And  you  me." 

She  sighed  with  exquisite  content,  and  slipped  her 
arm  dirough  his.  That  clinging  touch,  her  warm 
nearness,  the  rough,  sweet  smell  of  her  autumn  flow- 
ers,— these  things  were  to  remain  with  Maclear  for 
many  and  many  a  day. 

He  said,  with  that  appeal  of  which  he  was  uncon- 
scious, "You  '11  never  let  me  go,  Sombra?" 


164  THE  BRIDGE 

"Never,  dear  love.  And  you  '11  never  stop  lovin' 
me?" 

She  could  but  just  hear  his  answer.  "Never,  even 
if  you  were — dust." 

They  laughed  a  little,  at  themselves,  at  each  other. 

Never,  never,  never.  Word  too  great  for  the 
knowledge  of  man's  mind,  but  not  for  the  courage  of 
his  heart.  The  mist  flowed  past  -them  as  though  they 
walked  at  the  bottom  of  a  sea  whose  substance  was 
cloud,  not  water.  Endless,  soundless,  it  blotted  out 
their  world,  drifting  perpetually.  Time,  youth,  life 
itself  seemed  one  with  that  continual  silent  flood, 
passing  away. 

Sombra  said :  "What  ?s  queer  about  love  like  ours 
is  that  it  don't  stay  the  same.  It  grows.  When  I 
used  to  think  about  it — before  you  come — I  thought 
folk  fell  in  love,  an'  got  married,  an'  just  stayed  so. 
It  ain't — is  n't — that  way.  It 's  growin'  all  the 
while,  from  day  to  day.  Alan,  you  remember  when 
you  laughed  at  my  shoes  and  I  ran  away  into  the 
mist?  Well,  I  would  n't  do  that  now.  I  'd  know 
better  than  that  you  thought  to  hurt  me." 

"And  when  I  was  looking  for  you,  I  thought  you 
were  hiding  on  purpose,  that  you  did  n't  want  to  be 
found.  I  'd  know  better  than  that,  too." 

Her  sweet  dark  face,  a  little  pale,  turned  to  him 
in  the  mist.  Her  deep  voice  shook.  "Dear,"  she 
said,  "wherever  I  'm  called  on  to  go,  anywhere  in 


THE  MIST  165 

life,  anywhere  in — death,  I  '11  want  you  to  find  me." 

"I  '11  follow  and  find  you  wherever  it  is,  my  wife." 
He  kissed  her  as  though  she  were  a  holy  thing.  They 
went  on  together. 

Their  way  led  them  through  a  little  poplar  wood,  a 
grove  among  the  dunes.  The  straight  and  slender 
trunks  glimmered  about  them  in  the  mist.  Golden 
leaves  yet  clung  on  the  spires  above  them,  here  and 
there,  like  metal  flowers.  In  the  hush  of  the  mist 
they  could  hear  the  beaded  moisture  dripping  on  the 
sand. 

Here  and  there,  very  gradually,  the  mist  was  thin- 
ning. It  gave  them  glints  of  distance,  immediately 
curtained  by  a  fresh  and  soundless  cloud,  driving 
in  from  the  lake.  Vanishing  windows  in  the  tre- 
mendous wall  of  vapor  showed  them  a  bush,  a  tree, 
a  gleam  of  sunlight,  the  gray  shadow  of  a  wheeling 
gull.  Some  reeling  tunnel,  brief  as  a  breath,  opened 
on  sand  or  water,  the  clear  sky  or  a  single  blade  of 
grass. 

Sombra's  hand  closed  suddenly  on  Maclear's. 
She  said,  "Who  's  that  walkin'  in  the  wood  with  us?" 

"I  did  n't  see  any  one." 

She  pointed.  "Away  there.  Just  like  a  shadow, 
a  great  shadow  driftin'  through  the  trees." 

He  paused,  looked,  listened.  The  mist  enclosed 
them.  They  walked  on  again.  He  said,  "I  guess 
that  was  it, — just  a  shadow  of  the  mist,  Sombra." 


166  THE  BRIDGE 

"No,"  she  answered  quietly,  "it  was  a  man." 

"Was  it?" 

"Yes.     I  think  it  was  Mail." 

Maclear  was  silent.  He  had  not  told  her  of  the 
happening  of  the  night;  he  did  not  speak  of  it  now; 
but  he  was  troubled.  He  stared  among  the  ghostly 
gleaming  stems  of  the  little  poplars.  The  mist  gave 
him  a  hundred  shapes,  a  hundred  shadows,-  but  not 
one  that  might  have  been  a  man.  He  asked,  more 
of  himself  than  of  her,  "What  would  Mait  be  doing 
out  in  the  mist?" 

"Mist  or  darkness,  it 's  all  one  to  him,  Alan." 

Unconsciously  Maclear  tightened  his  hold  on  her 
arm  and  began  to  walk  faster.  He  remembered  that 
great  spirit  of  the  night,  under  which  the  walls  of 
Morning  House  had  seemed  to  crack  and  strain;  he 
wondered  if  it  were  abroad  now,  walking  the  island, 
seeking,  seeking  and  never  finding.  He  thought  of 
Mait  Ransome  no  longer  as  an  individual  but  as  an 
embodied  hunger  and  a  dark  desire. 

Swift  as  a  breeze  passing  across  a  pool,  the  mist 
quivered  and  thinned.  He  looked  for  an  instant 
down  a  narrow  aisle  between  wet  poplar  stems  and 
little  aspen  bushes.  He  too  saw  a  shadow  moving 
there  with  outstretched  hand,  no  sooner  apprehended 
than  hidden,  lost  again  in  innumerable  webs  of  run- 
ning mist.  He  was  not  sure,  but  he  thought  that 


THE  MIST  167 

huge  uncertain  shadow  had  been  running,  too,  in  the 
same  direction  as  the  mist  flowed,  and  as  though  ir- 
resistibly driven  with  it.  He  saw  no  more. 

They  came  out  of  the  wood,  and  walked  down  the 
beach.  Maclear  said,  "Where's  Sal?" 

"Gone  to  look  at  the  night-lines  he  had  out  by  the 
ledge.  Let 's  go  home  that  way,  Alan,  an'  look  for 
him."  A  little  later  she  went  on,  "There's  some- 
thing I  'd  like  to  say  to  you  about  Sal." 

"Say  it,  dear  heart." 

She  was  silent,  then  suddenly  stooped,  caught  his 
hand,  and  kissed  it.  He  saw  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes.  "It's  this,"  she  whispered:  "if  I  didn't  love 
you  for  anything  else,  Alan,  I  'd  love  you  for  the  way 
you  act  to  Sal." 

"He  's  your  brother,  you  silly  child!" 

"Yes.  He's  my  own  dear  brother.  We  been — 
dearer  to  each  other  than  most  brothers  an'  sisters, 
along  of  the  queer  life  we  Ve  had.  We  've  always 
helped  each  other.  Alan,  if  there  ever  comes  a  day 
— when  I  ain't  here,  dear,  to  help  Sal,  do  you  help 
him  for  me." 

He  knew  what  she  thought  of;  and,  following  her 
thought,  his  own  heart  wrenched  in  him  so  that  he 
could  hardly  control  his  voice.  He  dad  so,  and 
promised:  he  would  always  be  a  brother  to  Sal,  for 
her  sake.  He  looked  into  her  tender,  happy  eyes; 


168  THE  BRIDGE 

and  the  word  "brother"  laid  no  least  remembered 
shadow  on  this  fulfilment  of  his  life,  with  its  lovely 
anxiety  and  its  lovelier  hope. 

He  had  indeed  forgotten.  As  he  had  promised 
himself,  so  it  was:  the  past  was  becoming  to  him  as 
though  it  had  not  been. 

Along  the  beach,  in  the  dizzy  flow  of  the  brighten- 
ing mist,  Sal  came  to  them.  When  he  saw  them  he 
began  running.  He  joined  them,  and  stood  a  mo- 
ment, breathing  quickly,  and  looking  from  one  to 
the  other  with  eyes  bright  and  wild  with  excitement. 

"What 's  happened,  Sal?" 

It  was  Maclear  who  spoke.  But  the  boy  re- 
plied to  Sombra.  "It 's  a  ship,"  he  said  briefly, 
"grounded  out  on  the  sands." 

Something  held  them  silent  an  instant.  Then 
Sombra  asked,  in  a  low  voice,  "Grounded  in  the  same 
place—?" 

"In  the  same  place  as  the  fruit-boat  went  to 
pieces?  I  guess  so.  But  I  ain't  sure.  It 's  so  thick 
over  the  water  yet  that  you  can't  see  a  thing.  But 
when  I  was  out  along  the  ledge,  seeing  to  my  lines,  I 
heard  little  sounds." 

"Voices?" 

"No.  The  wind  's  sendin'  a  ripple  in,  under  the 
mist.  I  heard  it  strike  on  somethin'.  I  heard  other 
sounds, — little  creaks  like  riggin',  little  noises  like 
a  ship's  sails  make,  slattin'  in  the  wind.  Once  I 


THE  MIST  169 

thought  I  saw  a  great  tall  shadow,  as  it  might  'a'  been 
the  sails  of  a  ship." 

"She  's  run  ashore  all  standing,  then?" 

"I  think  so.     Last  night,  I  guess,  in  the  fog." 

"I  heard  a  siren,"  said  Maclear,  quickly. 

"Hers,  maybe."  Again,  Salvator  was  looking 
gravely  at  Sombra.  He  went  on:  "Don't  be  worried, 
Sis.  I  guess  the  crew  got  off  all  right  in  the  boat." 

Then  Maclear  looked  at  Sombra,  and  saw  that  she 
was  pale  and  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  He 
realized,  perhaps  fully  for  the  first  time,  how  the 
lonely  and  desolate  lives  of  the  brother  and  sister  had 
been  governed  by  that  event  of  twenty  years  before; 
that  without  it  they  would  not  have  existed;  that 
through  it  their  years  had  been  shaped  to  a  reflec- 
tion of  its  own  sorrow. 

Meeting  his  eyes,  she  wiped  her  own  on  the  back  of 
her  hand,  like  a  child.  "I  'm  silly,"  she  said  simply, 
"but  I  get  terr'ble  worked  up  when  a  ship  goes  ashore. 
Seems  like  as  if  it  reminded  me — What  you  goin' 
to  do,  Sal?" 

"I  'm  goin'  to  swim  out  and  look.  I  was  just 
waitin'  to  tell  you  and  Alan.  I  guessed  you  'd  be 
along  sometime  soon."  He  ihad  been  carrying  a 
string  of  fish.  These  he  laid  in  a  tuft  of  dune  grass. 
"You  watch  them  fish,  Sombra,"  he  said  gentry, 
"and  stay  here.  We  '11  know  where  to  find  you  if 
there  's  anything  you  k'n  do." 


170  THE  BRIDGE 

She  nodded.  Salvator  led  Maclear  back  a  short 
distance  through  the  mist,  which  seemed  thrilled  now 
with  an  invisible  excitement,  and  out  along  the  ledge 
which  was  the  spine  of  the  shoals.  The  mist  was 
sunlit  now,  running  faster  and  faster  before  a  sweet- 
ening breeze  that  already  sent  small  waves  slapping 
gaily  along  the  ledge;  but  it  showed  no  break.  It 
poured  past  them  as  though  it  would  pour  forever. 
Sal  pointed  into  it. 

"Listen,"  he  whispered;  "she's  out  there." 

Maclear  listened.  After  a  while  he  thought  he 
heard  numberless  faint  sounds  that  together  made  up 
the  complaint  as  of  a  living  substance.  He  heard  no 
sound  of  men. 

Suddenly  he  shivered.  The  mist  and  the  silence 
oppressed  him.  He  felt  himself  passive  in  the  hold 
of  long-dead  events,  ruled  by  their  ghostly  hands, 
impalpable  and  destructive  as  the  mist.  The  whole 
world,  invisible,  seemed  waiting  about  him;  an  enor- 
mous peceptiveness  filled  the  air,  the  water;  all  exist- 
ence was  focused  to  one  point  of  blind  apprehension. 
He  asked  impatiently,  "Can  you  see  anything  yet?" 

"No.  But  I  know  she  's  there."  Sal  swept  his 
hand  unconsciously  across  his  eyes.  "This  mist," 
he  went  on  in  the  same  hushed  voice,  "I  wish  it  'd  go. 
I  don't  like  a  mist.  It  makes  everything  seem  all 
shut  up,  like;  an  empty  room,  shut  up,  out  o'  doors." 
He  shook  himself  out  of  his  shabby  old  clothes. 


THE  MIST  171 

"Anyway,  I  'm  goin'  to  see.     If  I  was  rich  I  'd  set  a 
lighthouse  here  again,  and  a  bell  to  ring." 

"I  '11  come  with  you."  Maclear  stooped  to  unlace 
his  boots. 

"I  wish  you  'd  wait,  Alan.  I  '11  swim  out,  and 
if  a  ship  's  there,  I  '11  yell  to  you,  an'  then  you  k'n  go 
back  and  tell  Sombra.  She  gets  all  worked  up,  times 
like  this.  You  k'n  come  out  to  me  then." 

"All  right,"  said  Maclear,  gently.  He  was 
touched  by  the  boy's  thought  for  Sombra.  He  sat 
down  cross-legged  on  the  sand.  "Get  on  with  you, 
Sal,"  he  said;  "I  want  to  know  if  there  is  a  ship 
there!" 

Sal  glanced  down  at  him  with  his  sudden  trans- 
forming smile.  The  next  moment  he  dived  from  the 
ledge.  Ma-clear  watched  the  sleeked  black  head 
come  up,  and  the  water  bubbling  green  along  the 
stones.  In  another  moment  Sal  had  vanished  into 
the  milky  obscurity.  The  sound  of  his  strokes  came 
back  for  a  little  while  to  Maclear.  Then  these  also 
ceased).  Nothing  was  there  but  the  mist  running 
over  the  ripples.  Maclear  sat  still,  staring  into  the 
cloud. 

That  endless  flow  of  obscurity  made  him  feel  dis- 
embodied from  the  world. 

He  thought  he  waited  a  long  time  before  he  heard, 
strange  and  thin-drawn  through  the  fog,  Salvator's 
voice. 


172  THE  BRIDGE 

He  jumped  up  and  shouted  in  answer,  then  lis- 
tened. This  time  he  was  in  no  doubt. 

"Alan!  There 's  a  schoorier  aground  here  on 
the  outer  shoal!  All  standin'!  There's  no  one 
aboard!" 

The  ghostly  voice  broke  with  excitement. 

A  thought  leapt  into  Maclear's  mind.  He.  shouted 
back,  "What 's  her  name?" 

The  reply  was  indistinct,  ending  in  two  clear  words, 
"Tell  her."  Maclear,  considerably  excited  himself, 
turned  back  along  the  ledge  to  find  Sonibra.  At 
that  moment  he  heard  her  voice,  wildly  calling  his 
name. 

There  was  such  terror  in  her  voice  that  to  him 
it  was  as  though  the  mist  had  been  rent  apart,  and 
showed  him  darkness,  not  day.  He  ran  down  the 
ledge,  calling  to  her:  "Sombra!  Sombra,  where  are 
you?  What  is  it?"  He  could  see  nothing.  She 
was  lost  in  the  fog. 

He  ran  desperately.  The  very  wraiths  of  the  mist 
seemed  to  clog  his  feet,  as  though  he  ran  in  a  dream. 

Again  her  voice  came  to  him,  sharpest  dread  in  her 
accents:  "Alan!  It's  Mail!  I  can't  hold  him! 
He's  heard  the  ship  out  on  the  shoal!  Alan,  he's 
comin'!  Don't  let  him  by!  He's  comin'  after 
Sal!" 

Her  voice  approached,  winged  with  dread.  She 
was  running  toward  him,  toward  the  ledge.  But 


THE  MIST  173 

Mail  Ransome  was  upon  him  almost  before  her  cry 
had  ceased. 

He  strode  suddenly  out  of  the  mist,  which  seemed 
to  part  for  him.  His  broad  blind  face  was  raised. 
His  dead  eyes  stared  out  lakeward.  But  at  that  mo- 
ment he  was  not  blind.  Behind  the  fog  he  saw  the 
ship, — the  ship  of  twenty  years  before:  the  fruit-boat 
from  the  Floridas,  long  since  fallen  to  dust  on  that 
shoal. 

That  vision  was  on  his  face,  like  a  light  that  was 
darkness.  Maclear  caught  his  breath.  No  use  to 
speak'!  He  gathered  all  his  strength,  sprang  for- 
ward, and  seized  the  old  man  round  the  body. 

He  was  strong.  But  as  though  he  had  been  mist 
Mait  Ransome  put  him  aside,  swept  him  by.  He 
said,  "/  9m  not  goin'  to  have  Juan  brought  ashore 
again,"  and  passed  on  toward  the  vision  of  his  hate. 

Maclear  staggered,  and  rolled  splashing  from  the 
ledge  into  the  shallow  water.  He  was  up  again 
almost  directly.  But  in  that  moment  the  old  man 
had  plunged  from  the  ledge  as  Salvator  had  done, 
and  like  him  was  swimming  slowly  away  into  the'fog, 
guided  by  those  faint  sounds  that  had  led  Salvator, 
the  complaint  of  a  dying  ship. 

Maclear  hesitated  a  moment.  But  after  all, 
Mait  was  blind  and  the  boy  was  quick  and  could 
swim  like  a  fish.  He  gave  one  great  shout  of  warn- 
ing, then  turned  and  ran  to  meet  Sombra. 


174  THE  BRIDGE 

All  had  happened  so  quickly  that  she  had  not  yet 
reached  him.  She  had  been  struggling  with  Mail. 
He  had  not  hurt  her.  As  he  had  put  Maclear  aside, 
so  in  the  strength  of  his  vision  he  had  put  her.  She 
had  fallen  in  the  sand.  Maclear  saw  her  white  face 
and  her  streaming  black  hair  dawn  suddenly  out  of 
the  mist. 

It  was  a  face  he  did  not  know,  a  face  staring  be- 
yond him  at  horror.  His  heart  leaped  in  his  throat. 
He  ran  to  her,  caught  her  in  his  arms,  spoke  to  her, — 
he  did  not  know  what.  For  a  moment  he  had  for- 
gotten everything  but  her.  And  as  she  had  fought 
with  Mait  to  hold  him,  now  she  fought  terribly  with 
Maclear,  to  get  past  him.  As  she  had  cried  then, 
cried  his  name,  so  she  cried  now.  But  her  cry  was, 
"Sal!  Sal!  My  brother!" 

That  cry  rent  his  heart.  Her  desperate  struggles 
to  get  away  from  him,  to  follow  and  defend  Salvator, 
shook  him  to  the  soul.  She  was  wild  with  terror,  that 
strange  terror  of  dreams  which  he  had  seen  in  the 
boy's  face  in  the  night.  He  tried  to  control  her,  to 
reassure  her,  but  she  was  beyond  his  voice.  She 
struck  at  him,  crying  all  the  time  in  that  terrible  dry 
voice,  for  "Sal,  Sal,  Sal!"  He  imprisoned  her 
hands,  and  carried  her  back  to  the  beach  by  sheer 
force.  Had  he  not  used  it  she  would  have  thrown 
herself  into  the  water  and  followed  them  to  the  ship. 

He  set  her  down  on  the  sand.     Her  terror  had 


THE  MIST  175 

passed  to  him,  though  he  could  not  have  said  what  he 
feared.  He  dared  not  leave  her.  She  struggled  no 
more.  She  seemed  unconscious  that  he  was  holding 
her.  She  leaned  against  him.  Her  hands  were  held 
out,  grasping  the  mist.  Now  and  then  she  shuddered 
and  moaned. 

He  never  knew  how  long  they  waited  on  the  beach 
behind  the  shoal,  staring  into  that  cloud. 

Suddenly,  from  the  unseen  ship,  there  came  a 
great  cry.  He  felt  Sombra  shudder  and  grow  stiff 
against  him,  as  though  she  had  died.  There  had  been 
death  in  that  cry.  But  life  was  in  her,  in  the  cease- 
less endeavor  of  her  hands,  in  the  dreadful  gaze  that 
seemed  to  pierce  the  mist. 

Whose  voice? 

They  waited,  awfully  intent.  There  came  no 
other  sound. 

Then  Maclear  would  have  covered  her  eyes  with 
his  hand.  But  she  struck  it  down. 

For  the  mist  cleared. 

It  was  running  in  great  banks,  as  it  does  on  the 
lakes,  each  bank  as  sharply  divided  from  the  clear, 
and  with  as  clean  a  line,  as  though  it  were  a  wall  of 
stone.  One  of  these  walls  passed  over  the  island. 
In  the  clear  behind  it  there  sprang  suddenly  to  their 
eyes  the  glittering  ship. 

Maclear  knew  her  instantly. 

The  old  Marline  Messier  had  grounded  so  gently 


176  THE  BRIDGE 

that  she  lay  on  an  almost  level  keel.  Her  deck,  just 
clearing  the  ripple,  was  tilted  toward  them.  Her  old 
canvas  swelled  unavailingly  in  the  sweet  fresh  breeze. 
From  deck  to  topsails  she  was  frosted  with  the  rime, 
and  the  brief  sun  sparkled  on  her  as  though  she  were 
a  diamond;  she  looked  a  jewel  upon  the  face  of 
another  white  wall  of  mist  that  came  sweeping  down 
on  her,  on  the  bright  shoal  water  where  she  lay  so 
quietly,  on  the  island  and  those  who  watched. 

It  came.  The  ship  vanished,  and  the  water,  and 
the  strong  sun.  But  not  before  they  had  seen. 

The  deck  was  empty. 

"Sombra!  My  God!  I  could  n't  stop  him!  He 
threw  me  down  like  a  child." 

Even  then,  though  her  terrible  look  was  still  toward 
the  ship,  she  tried  to  find  comfort  for  him.  "I 
know,"  her  dead  voice  said,  "I  know.  It  was  not 
your  fault,  dear.  It — was  to  be." 

Suddenly  she  failed  and  sank.  Maclear  laid  her 
down  on  the  sand.  Her  eyes  still  stared  toward  the 
ship.  But  he  could  no  longer  endure  inaction.  He 
left  her  and  ran  staggering  toward  the  ledge. 

In  a  moment  he  stopped. 

Some  one  was  swimming  heavily  to  the  shore. 

Life  seemed  to  stand  still  for  Maclear  while  he 
waited. 

A  sleeked  black  head  appeared  from  the  mist. 


THE  MIST  177 

Sal's  face  stared  blankly  up  at  him  from  the  fog. 
Maclear  could  not  move. 

Very  weakly  the  boy  drew  himself  up  out  of  the 
water.  Very  slowly  he  walked  to  where  Maclear 
stood.  His  eyes  stared  and  stared,  beyond  Maclear, 
beyond  the  world.  At  last  he  said  faintly:  "I  been 
divin' — after  him.  I  could  n't  find  him. — I  'm 
cold." 

Maclear  was  cold,  too.  He  gripped  Sal  by  his 
wet  shoulders,  and  strove,  by  impassioned  words, 
with  entreaties,  to  break  that  terrible  blank  stare. 
He  could  not. 

"He  come  on  me  when  I  was  leanin'  over  the  side. 
He  took  me  to  drown  me.  I  threw  him — wjth  that 
fall  you  learned  me.  He  cried  when  he  went  over. 
I  can't  find  him.  It 's  done,  done,  done — " 

Still  whispering  that  it  was  done,  done,  done,  he 
moved  slowly  away  from  Maclear  toward  the  beach. 

Shaking  himself  free  of  that  horror  that  rested  on 
him  as  the  mist  rested  on  his  vision,  Maclear  stripped 
and  swam  out  to  the  schooner. 

She  dawned  upon  him  like  a  shadow  from  the  deli- 
cate blinding  mist.  He  walked  again  her  glimmer- 
ing deck.  He  searched  and  shouted  like  a  madman. 
Then,  as  Sal  had  done,  he  dived;  came  up  empty- 
handed;  dived,  and  dived  again.  At  last  he  was  ex- 
hausted. He  rested  on  the  deck  a  while,  shaking. 


178  THE  BRIDGE 

Then  he  swam  back  to  the  ledge,  dressed,  and  fol- 
lowed Sal  to  the  beach. 
Salvator  had  not  gone  far. 

He  had  fallen  on  his  face  at  Sombra's  feet.  And 
now  she  sat  crouched  above  him,  swaying  to  and  fro. 
She  had  drawn  the  boy's  passive  head  on  her  knees, 
encircled  his  bare  wet  shoulders  with  her  strong  arms, 
crooning  to  him,  passionately  pitying  him,  with  low 
mother-sounds  of  immeasurable  grief.  As  Maclear 
approached  she  lifted  her  head  suddenly  and  wailed 
aloud.  And  the  mist  took  up  her  cry,  and  the  lake 
increased  it,  and  the  unseen  hollows  of  the  dunes 
returned  it  against  his  heart. 

He  said,  "Sombra,  my  dear  love." 

After  a  long  time,  and  it  seemed  from  a  long  dis- 
tance, her  eyes  were  looking  at  him. 

She  said:  "Don't  stay  here,  Alan.  Leave  us  be. 
It 's  done." 

"Sombra,  my  dearest,  listen!  It  was  an  accident; 
it  was  in  self-defense.  Oh,  my  God,  listen!" 

For  suddenly  an  infinite  terror  struck  to  Maclear's 
soul. 

She  was  distant,  removed,  fading  from  him,  as 
though  he  saw  her  through  miles  of  mist.  She  lifted 
Sal's  brown  hand.  As  if  she  had  not  heard  him  at 
all,  she  repeated,  in  the  same  dead  voice:  "It 's  done. 
He  's  done  it — with  this  hand — at  last." 

"Sombra!" 


THE  MIST  179 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms.  And  at  that,  as  if  he 
had  struck  her,  she  shrieked.  She  beat  him  away. 

"Sombra— " 

In  her  eyes  was  death.  That,  and  a  great  horror 
of  shame, — not  for  herself,  not  for  Salvator;  for  him. 

"My  love!  my  wife — " 

"Never  again,  Alan,  never  again.  We  're  not  fit; 
not  fit  for  you  to  as  much  as  touch  us  any  more!" 

His  hands  reached  out  to  her.  She  shrank  from 
them  as  though  her  body  would  have  burned  him  had 
he  touched  it.  She  said  in  that  dull,  strange  voice, 
"We  was  beneath  you  before,  not  fit  for  you." 

"Sombra,  Sombra,  you  '11  break  my  heart." 

"What  are  we  now?  0  Christ  of  pity,  what  are  we 
now?" 

He  tried  to  find  her,  to  hold  her.  She  and  Sal  had 
risen,  and  somehow  they  escaped  him.  The  mist 
flowed  between;  and  that  space  seemed  to  widen  and 
increase,  till  it  was  a  gulf  without  bound,  wider, 
deeper  than  the  channel  of  the  Bersimis, — an  un- 
plumbed  hollow  that  no  assurance,  no  love,  no  reason 
could  span;  unbridgeable  as  death. 

"Sombra!" 

But  she  was  gone.  He  had  lost  them.  Clinging 
together  like  stricken  children,  they  were  running 
from  him  into  the  mist. 

Only  her  wild  voice  came  back  to  him,  "Never! 
never  no  more!" 


180  THE  BRIDGE 

K 

Maclear  was  standing  outside  a  closed  door. 

He  must  have  spent  hours  standing  outside  it, 
waiting  for  a  word  that  never  came;  he  was  familiar 
with  every  mark  in  the  unpainted  wood  of  the  panel 
against  which  his  head  rested.  He  knew  every  curve 
and  whorl  and  ribboned  line  in  the  silvery  pinewood. 
He  had  traced  them  over  and  over  with  his  ringer. 

He  remembered  little  of  the  last  days  but  this 
closed  door  in  the  eternal  corridors  of  the  mist. 

There  were  other  things,  all  of  which  he  had  en- 
dured, all  of  which  had  passed  from  him. 

Garroch  had  come  out  to  the  island  in  the  launch 
from  the  town.  The  schooner's  crew  had  all  been 
picked  up  by  the  fishing-tug  and  taken  safely  into 
port.  Strangers  also  had  appeared  on  Tallis  Island, 
— unknown  faces,  forgotten  as  soon  as  seen,  looking 
at  him,  talking  to  him  out  of  this  mist. 

One  of  these  faces  said  to  him  that  it  was  a  bad 
job,  and  that  he  'd  always  knowed  something  like 
this  'd  happen,  and  that  the  young  folk  seemed  all 
broke  up  about  the  old  feller  instead  of  seein'  it  as  a 
happy  release,  which  it  was,  look  at  it  how  you  would. 
Maclear  agreed  that  it  was  a  bad  job.  But  he 
referred  to  life  itself. 

Mail's  body  was  recovered ;  it  was  brought  in  from 
the  deep  water,  into  the  empty  rooms  of  Morning 


THE  MIST  181 

House  as  Juan  Luz  had  been  carried  in  long  ago.  It 
was  taken  over  to  the  town  and  quietly  buried — with 
what  unknown  irony  and  unconscious  charity! — in 
the  little  cemetery  where  Sombra's  mother  lay. 
They  rested  at  last  together,  with  their  love  and  their 
hate. 

There  were  few  questions  to  be  met,  no  doubts. 
An  old  man,  known  to  be  half-witted,  swimming  out 
to  a  stranded  ship,  there  to  fall  from  her  deck  and  be 
drowned, — there  was  nothing  here  to  question  or  to 
doubt.  Only  Maclear  and  Sombra  and  Salvator 
knew  the  truth. 

It  was  a  truth  that  could  never  be  told,  for  her 
sake.  Perhaps  Salvator  alone  realized  that  he  would 
never  be  able  to  lift  that  burden  from  his  soul  by 
any  way  of  confession.  .  All  his  life  he  must  bear  in 
silence  the  fruit  of  a  long-past  love  and  a  long-past 
hate.  By  the  truth  he  could  never  make  himself 
free. 

He  moved  in  that  shadow,  far  off  from  them  and 
apart. 

Maclear  was  left  alone,  standing  outside  a  closed 
door. 

Wherever  he  went  in  the  perpetual  mist,  it  stood 
before  him.  He  wandered  the  island  to  escape  it, 
and  it  fronted  him  in  every  barrier  of  the  fog,  every 
shadow  of  the  flowing  cloud.  At  night  he  returned 
to  it,  and  rested  with  his  hands  upon  the  threshold, 


182  THE  BRIDGE 

sleepless  and  still.     Hour  by  hour,  he  knew,  that 
space  was  widening  between  them. 

He  was  released  now  from  the  small  duties,  the 
arrangements  which  had  spared  her.  All  was  over. 
Old  wrongs  had  come  to  their  appointed  end.  In 
the  lonely  rooms  of  Morning  House  the  little  painted 
hulls  gathered  the  blowing  sand,  and  the  mist  ran 
over  an  empty  place. 

Once  more  Tallis  Island  was  solitary,  returned  to 
its  wandering  voices,  its  waves  and  shadows.  Even 
the  schooner  had  been  towed  off  the  shoal,  patched, 
and  taken  to  the  town  yards. 

Maclear  leaned  against  the  closed  door,  and 
thought  of  the  golden  room  in  which  he  would  have 
set  his  love,  and  the  door  he  would  have  shut  for  the 
delight  of  opening  it;  and  laughed. 

Silence  had  laid  a  hand  on  Morning  House.  This 
was  the  first  sound  that  the  empty  rooms  had  heard. 
The  flickering  spaces  of  the  mist  seemed  to  shrink 
from  it. 

He  began  to  call  her,  very  softly:  "Sombra!  Som- 
bra!"  There  was  no  answer.  He  called  her  aloud. 
Something  was  giving  way  in  him.  He  set  his 
shoulder  to  the  door.  It  quivered,  cracked;  the  bolt 
flew  out;  he  thrust  again,  savagely,  as  he  might  have 
thrust  at  a  living  enemy.  The  door  fell. 

He  had  her  in  his  arms.  He  had  been  starving  for 
the  feeling  of  her  hair  against  his  cheek,  her  heart 


THE  MIST  183 

under  his  hand.  These  he  had  now,  and  his  kisses 
were  on  her  lips,  her  hair,  her  pale  eyelids.  Words 
came  from  his  lips,  broken  words,  stammering 
phrases,  in  which  there  was  nothing  distinct  but  "I 
love  you,  Sombra.  I  can't  do  without  you.  Don't 
let  me  go." 

All  at  once  he  was  very  still.  She  lay  in  his  arms 
without  look,  motion,  or  resistance.  Even  her  finger 
was  not  lifted  against  him.  But  it  came  to  him  that 
he  had  not  broken  down  the  door  after  all. 

He  released  her.  She  went  slowly  away  from  him 
to  the  wall,  against  which  she  rested,  hiding  her  face 
in  her  hands.  He  said  again,  "Sombra."  She 
lifted  her  head  then,  and  looked  long  at  him. 
Looked  and  looked,  as  one  looks  on  a  thing  soon  to 
be  gone,  soon  to  be  hidden;  then  again  she  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

"Oh,  Sombra!  my  dear  love!  my  poor  child!  why 
punish  both  of  us  this  way?"  He  was  suddenly  very 
tender  with  her. 

She  looked  at  him  once  more.  He  was  her  world. 
What  she  contemplated  was  like  death;  the  death  of 
the  body  would  have  seemed  to  her  a  little  thing, 
and  what  she  contemplated,  that  she  had  strength  to 
do. 

Like  a  dream  half  forgotten,  the  thought  of  the 
ruin  and  waste  and  betrayal  of  life  was  return- 
ing to  him,  overwhelming  him;  all  that  he  had  built 


184  THE  BRIDGE 

on  was  again  running  with  the  sand,  drifting  with  the 
mist.  He  was  lost.  He  spoke  again,  using  the 
words  of  »that  dream  unconsciously. 

"Don't  leave  me.     Don't  let  me  go." 

Her  voice  came  to  him  as  though  from  a  great 
distance.  "I  said — long  ago — that  I  'd  never  leave 
you,  unless  it  was  good  for  you  to  be  left." 

He  answered  now  as  he  had  answered  then:  "My 
God,  as  though  it  ever  could  be!" 

And  all  the  while — as  he  fought,  as  he  pleaded,  as 
he  struggled  with  her,  spirit  to  spirit, — there  flowed 
in  upon  him,  like  the  cold  tide  of  the  mist,  that 
weary  sense  of  waste,  that  vast  blank  foreknowledge 
of  futility. 

She  uncovered  her  face;  it  was  colorless;  her  eyes 
were  sunken  in  dark  rings,  but  they  looked  at  him 
with  steadiness;  her  whole  being  was  keyed  to  this 
passion  of  suffering  and  sacrifice;  having  seen  this 
agony,  she  embraced  it.  There  was  something  in  her 
not  of  the  North.  She  saw  herself  and  Salvator  in 
the  same  dark  shadow  of  fate.  She — pure  child, 
pure  wife,  pure  mother  that  was  to  be — called  herself 
a  murderer's  sister;  she  was  resolute  to  keep  Mac- 
lear  free  from  that  stain.  Looking  forward,  she 
thought  it  would  be  well  if  she  died  and  released  him 
frpm  an  inconceivable  wrong. 

If  she  could  have  ceased  to  be  his  wife,  she  would 


THE  MIST  185 

have;  if  she  could  have  blotted  from  his  mind  every 
memory  of  her,  she  would  have;  if  she  could  have 
charmed  him  so  that  he  would  have  passed  her  and 
thought  her  a  stranger,  it  had  been  done.  The  height 
of  her  love  alone  could  now  plumb  the  depths  of  her 
abnegation.  She  had  shut  a  door  between  them. 
She  would  not  defile  him  to  admit  him. 

"Sombra,  you  saved  me  once.  Will  you  let  me  be 
lost  now?  I  'm  lost  without  you.  I  must  see  you, 
speak  to  you,  listen  to  you,  or  I  shall  go  mad."  The 
mist  had  taken  everything.  But  as  that  running 
cloud,  when  he  walked  in  it,  released  him  here  a 
stone,  there  a  pool,  again  a  tree,  so  now  wild  words 
were  returned  to  him,  an  agony  of  appeal  that  broke 
upon  the  girl  like  foam. 

"Alan,  I  saved  you  once  by  comin'  to  you.  I 
thought — I  thought  as  you  'd  turn  from  us — after 
this — not  to  be  disgraced  by  us.  Maybe  I  prayed 
you*  would.  Maybe  that  was  a  selfish  prayer.  And 
what  I  must  do,  I  must  do  of  my  own  self." 

"Sombra—" 

"If  I  must  save  you  this  time  by  goin'  from  you, 
I  '11  do  it,  if  I  die  for  it." 

He  heard  her  as  if  from  miles  away,  though 
he  was  there  at  her  feet,  clasping  her  knees.  She 
did  not  even  tremble.  She  stooped,  and  with  her 
cold  hands  unlaced  his  hot  fingers.  Her  words  came 


186  THE  BRIDGE 

to  him  faintly:  "We  ain't  fit  that  you  should  touch 
us.  Will  you  go,  Alan, — 'forgive  me — oh,  forgive 
me — for  what  I  let  you  do,  and  go?" 

"Never,  Sombra." 

He  caught  those  cold  hands,  kissed  them,  wept 
over  them.  No  tremor  broke  her  calm.  Only  after 
a  while  she  whispered,  "Dear,  if  you  touch  me  any 
more,  I  shall  die." 

He  dropped  her  hands  and  rose,  facing  her.  Her 
love,  across  that  abyss  love  itself  had  dug,  looked 
back  at  him  with  an  awful,  solemn  compassion.  He 
spoke  now  very  quietly.  He  asked,  "Sombra,  are 
you  going  to  leave  me?" 

"Yes,  Alan." 

"I  could  stop  you.  I  could  lock  you  in  this  room. 
I  could  send  for  the  schooner  and  take  you  back  to 
the  city  and  keep  you  there.  I  'd  almost  find  it  in 
my  heart,  Sombra,  to  tie  you  up,  to  be'at  you,  to  break 
you,  to  smash  that  beautiful  body  of  yours  till  I  came 
to  you;  to  hold  you  in  my  hands  a  minute,  like  a 
bird  out  of  a  cage — that  wild  thing.  Only- 
he  flung  up  his  hands — "only  you  'd  be  gone. 
Gone." 

Her  eyes  never  faltered;  rather,  they  lit  to  a 
brighter  flame.  She  said  clearly,  "I  love  you,  dear, 
better  than  my  life." 

And  he  said:  "I  know  it.  I  see  it.  That's  why 
you  are  doing  this." 


THE  MIST  187 

As  he  spoke  he  drew  back  from  her.  He  had  lost 
her.  He  looked  all  round  the  familiar  shabby  room, 
then  again  at  her.  And  at  this  time,  when  he  was 
defeated  as  he  had  never  been  before,  when  he  was 
betrayed  as  never  before,  when  the  whole  substance 
of  his  life  had  gone  down  in  ruin, — at  this  time,  as 
never  before,  he  was  strong. 

Under  the  sand  and  the  mist,  under  the  wreck  and 
the  waste  and  the  cruelty,  he  had  come  upon  a  rock. 

He  said,  "Sombra,  if  you  want  to  leave  me,  I 
won't  lift  so  much  as  a  finger  to  prevent  you." 

She  waited,  her  pitiful  eyes  on  his. 

"You  shall  do  what  you  like,  go  where  you  like. 
I  leave  you  free.  My  poor  love,  I  '11  torture  you  no 


more." 


Now  she  began  to  shake.  She  made  no  sound. 
But  the  tears  brimmed  her  eyes  silently,  flooded  her 
cheeks  in  a  bright  glitter,  dripped  on  her  gown. 

"But,  Sombra,  you  can  never  lose  me.  You  can 
never  leave  me.  You  can  never  escape  me.  Be- 
cause I  love  you." 

He  went  out  then,  and  she  was  alone  within  the 
broken  door. 

The  night  passed  over  Tallis  Island;  the  mist,  and 
the  keen  air,  and  the  tide  of  stars.  When  the  stars 
were  going  out,  and  a  great  wash  of  yellow  light 
filled  the  sky,  Sombra  leaned  over  her  brother  and 
woke  him. 


188  THE  BRIDGE 

He  looked  up  at  her  quietly.  As  though  the 
thought  that  had  been  all  the  time  in  her  mind  had 
been  also  in  his,  he  asked,  "Sombra,  you  goin* 
away?" 

"Yes." 

Her  eyes  rested  on  him  without  reproach.  His 
face  twitched.  He  got  up.  He  had  lain  down  fully 
dressed,  as  though  in  expectation  of  her  summons. 
She  held  out  her  hand.  He  took  it.  Clinging  one 
to  the  other,  like  stricken  children,  they  went  through 
the  empty  house.  They  passed  that  room  of  the 
broken  door,  and  many  another;  no  door  had  now 
anything  to  close  upon  or  to  guard. 

They  went  out  into  the  mist.  There  had  been  a 
frost,  too,  and  the  whole  front  of  Morning  House,  the 
pale  brown  reeds  of  the  lagoons,  the  grass,  the  sand 
itself,  were  all  immaculately  silvered.  Their  foot- 
prints were  black  in  this  purity;  the  first  sun,  the 
increasing  warmth  of  the  day,  would  make  them  as 
though  they  had  never  been. 

They  went  to  the  little  boat-house.  But  Sombra, 
who  had  been  quiet  as  a  stone,  shrank  and  wailed 
suddenly:  "Not  the  little  boat!  Not  his!"  And  so 
the  dumb  boy  left  the  skiff  where  it  was,  and  launched 
the  heavy  boat  that  had  been  Mail's.  They  stepped 
into  it.  Salvator  took  the  oars.  They  crept  away 
into  the  mist. 

The  oars  made  a  muffled  sound  in  the  stillness 


THE  MIST  189 

and  the  dim  golden  cloud.  It  was  like  the  throbbing 
of  a  heart.  The  sound  struck  on  a  heart.  And  in  a 
moment  the  snowbirds  whirled  affrighted  from  the 
lake  beaches,  and  a  score  of  wild  duck  lifted  from 
the  reeds.  The  mist  itself  seemed  to  part  before 
that  wild  cry,  "I  love  you,  Alan,  I  love  you!" 

The  oars  beat  steadily.  The  boy  bent  over  them 
groaned  once.  The  mist  had  not  parted  toward 
Morning  House,  but  toward  the  town.  It  was  like  a 
lane  of  rolling  yellow  vapor,  a  reeling  tunnel,  down 
which  the  old  boat  crept  and  crept,  and  in  which  it 
presently  vanished  away. 

Later,  when  Maclear  woke,  he  knew  himself  alone. 


He  went,  too,  the  next  day,  over  to  the  town.  He 
went  in  the  little  skiff,  which  he  left  at  the  yards 
where  the  schooner  was;  then  he  found  himself  a 
room  in  the  town. 

He  had  spoken  no  more  than  the  truth  to  Sombra. 
She  could  not  lose  him.  But  before  he  followed  her 
he  must  rest. 

He  was  aware  now  of  a  blank  like  death,  an  im- 
mense lethargy.  The  mists  seemed  to  have  entered 
his  soul;  his  senses  were  dulled;  his  whole  being 
reeled  and  drifted.  But  behind  this  mist  his  love 
shone  like  a  star.  And  love  is  very  patient. 


190  THE  BRIDGE 

The  room  he  took  was  a  cheap  and  common  one, 
in  a  poor  part  of  the  town.  He  had  chosen  it  out  of 
several  better  ones  because  its  single  window  gave  on 
a  blank  wall  and  not  on  a  view  of  the  lake. 

Here  he  lay  in  bed  all  day,  his  lean  knees  drawn 
up,  staring  at  the  ceiling,  too  tired,  for  a  little  while, 
even  to  grieve. 

He  stared  at  the  ceiling  because  there  was  a  stain 
on  it  caused  by  a  leak.  The  leak  made  a  very  good 
map  of  Tallis  Island,  and  he  traced  on  it  over  and 
over  again  the  lagoons,  the  site  of  Morning  House, 
the  sand-hills,  and  the  shore. 

He  was  out  of  sight  of  the  lake.  But  in  the  quiet 
of  the  night  he  could  hear  it.  And  when  darkness 
came  in  his  ugly  room,  he  could  see  it.  He  always 
saw  it  rippling  softly  shoreward  under  a  milk-white 
mist,  and  rising  from  it  a  boy's  stricken  face. 

His  landlady,  a  kindly  soul  and  much  puzzled 
about  him,  brought  him  food.  Sometimes  he  ate  it 
and  sometimes  he  forgot  it,  as  he  stared  at  his  map 
on  the  ceiling. 

The  house  was  quiet.  Occasionally  people  came 
to  it  and  were  admitted.  He  always  knew  when  the 
front  door  opened  or  shut,  because  an  ill-hung  picture 
on  the  ill-built  wall  opposite  his  bed  shook  on  its 
nail.  One  evening,  when  he  could  no  longer  see  his 
map,  he  saw  this  picture*  glimmer  in  the  dusk,  and 
knew  that  some  one  had  entered  the  house. 


THE  MIST  191 

Presently  he  heard  steps  outside,  and  his  door 
opened,  admitting  a  bar  of  gas-light  from  the  hall. 

He  said,  "Who  is  it?" 

"It 's  me, — Jack.  You  never  wanted  me  before. 
Do  you  want  me  now?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maclear,  after  a  while.  Then  he 
asked,  "How  did  you  know  I  was  here?" 

"Garroch  told  me." 

"I  thought  you  'd — quit." 

"Well,  I  'm  here." 

Raynham  moved  forward  to  the  side  of  the  bed, 
suddenly  and  quietly  dropped  on  his  knees  there. 

"I  told  you  I  'd  never  quit  you  if  you  wanted  me, 
Alan.  It 's  good  and  dark.  Tell  me  all  about  it, 
old  man." 

Maclear  turned  over,  rested  his  forehead  on  Rayn- 
ham's  hand,  and  told. 

All  the  time  the  mist  drifted  above  them;  above 
the  town  and  the  lake;  above  Tallis  Island  and  the 
empty  house;  above  hearts  that  sorrowed  and  hearts 
that  slept.  It  was  like  Time,  ceaseless,  vast,  impal- 
pable, flowing  away,  taking  all  things  to  itself.  All 
things  but  love,  which  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  come. 


Ill 

THE  SNOW 


IT  was  late  when  Maclear  rode  out  to  the  farm. 
His  horse  was  tired.  He  went  at  a  walking-pace 
along  a  sandy  track  where  thin  ice  crackled  in  every 
rut.  A  half -moon,  high-risen,  barred  the  track  with 
regular  blocks  of  silver  between  the  black  shadows  of 
pines  that  grew  on  each  side. 

Maclear  looked  ait  every  tree  and  bush  that  he 
passed.  For  along  this  track  Sombra  might  some- 
times have  walked;  and  he  was  glad  his  eyes  should 
rest  where  hers  had  rested. 

He  rode  through  an  opening  in  the  old  snake-fence 
into  a  wide  pasture,  limitless  silver  in  the  young 
frost.  From  the  midst  an  owl  lifted  noiselessly  as 
he  went  by.  He  crossed  the  pasture  and  entered 
another  road,  at  the  end  of  which  a  cluster  of  small 
bare  buildings  showed  sharp  and  frail  as  paper  in 
that  Northern  moon. 

Over  them  a  windmill  pump  reared  a  lofty  disk, 
whirling  now  and  then  with  a  hollow  clank  in  the 
silence.  A  dog  barked.  Two  great  maples  grew 
behind  the  buildings.  The  Stars  glittered  among 

195 


196  THE  BRIDGE 

their  quiet  branches, — so  delicate,  small,  and  still, 
like  white  fish  in  a  black  net.  One  window  of  the 
house  showed  a  light  behind  a  red  blind.  Maclear 
knew  himself  expected  and  awaited. 

He  rode  softly  to  a  weather-whitened  door,  about 
which  the  dry  dead  stems  of  a  vine  rustled.  He 
shivered  at  the  faint  wintry  sound.  He  dismounted. 
Before  he  could  knock  the  door  opened  and  a  woman 
stood  there. 

"It 'si— Maclear." 

"I  knew  it  'd  be  you." 

He  looked  with  keen  scrutiny  at  Sombra's  friend. 

The  woman  was  worn  and  thin;  she  had  the  look 
of  a  human  body  reduced  to  its  hardiest  fiber  by 
hard  work;  but  in  her  eyes  was  a  young  and  living 
spirit;  they  were  the  only  means  of  expression  she 
had,  for  her  voice  was  so  weary  and  nasal  it  conveyed 
no  meaning.  She  said  again:  "I  knew  it  'd  be  you. 
Come  right  in." 

He  entered  with  her.  She  called  softly,  and  pres- 
ently a  half -clad  freckled  boy  came  stumbling  down 
the  stairs,  stared  a  moment  sleepily  at  Maclear,  and 
then  led  his  horse  round  to  the  stable.  The  outer 
door  shut.  She  led  him  along  a  warm,  stuffy  hall 
and  into  a  dim,  warm  kitchen.  Maclear  looked 
round  as  though  he  wanted  to  mark  everything  the 
room  contained,  and  remember  it.  For  here  Sombra 
came  every  day. 


THE  SNOW  197 

"Set  right  down,  Mr.  Maclear.  I  kep'  some  sup- 
per for  you." 

He  sat  down  in  silence.  She  came  to  the  table 
with  a  steaming  coffee-pot  and  some  cold  meat.  She 
turned  up  the  lamp.  Her  worn  face  was  revealed 
against  the  shadows;  his  also.  For  a  moment  they 
measured  each  other  quietly. 

Then  Maclear  said :  "It 's  good  of  you  to  have 
waited  up  for  me.  It 's  good  of  you  to  have  let  me 
come  at  all." 

He  was  indeed  grateful  to  this  woman.  But  there 
was  another  matter  that  went  beyond  gratitude.  He 
continued,  in  a  very  low  voice,  "Mjrs.  Mackerrow, 
how  is  she?" 

"Her  health 's  good,  Mr.  Maclear,  her  bod'ly 
health.  It 's  her  mind  's — hurt." 

"I  know." 

"So  it 's  best  she  should  n't  see  you  yet,  sir,  nor 
know  you  are  anywheres  around." 

Maclear  took  up  the  knife  and  fork  she  had  set 
for  him  and  began  to  eat.  Presently  he  asked  in  the 
same  quiet  way,  "And  the  boy?" 

"Well— in  bod'ly  health.  He  's  off  with  Bassett 
to-night.  They  'd  to  take  the  big  sleigh  into  town  to 
get  the  runners  fixed,  and  they  '11  stop  over-night. 
I  'm  glad  he  's  away.  It — he  's  eatin'  his  heart  out 
over  you,  some  way." 

Maclear  looked  up,  and  met  the  keen  and  living 


198  THE  BRIDGE 

glance  of  those  eyes  in  the  withered  face.  He  said, 
"It 's  the  most  pitiful  thing  in  the  world." 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Mackerrow  leaned  her  twisted 
hands  on  the  edge  of  the  table  and  bent  toward  him. 
She  said  in  that  dragging  flat  voice,  "I  envy  you 
both." 

He  stared  at  her,  scarcely  able  to  believe  she  had 
used  those  strange  words.  Her  hands  shook,  her 
faded  face  worked.  In  her  eyes  was  a  glow  like  the 
eagerness  of  hunger. 

"Mr.  Maclear,  life  's  a  difficult  thing.  Marriage 
is  another.  I  don't  know  what 's  separated  you  an' 
her.  I  don't  seek  to  know.  But  I  know  you  're  suf- 
ferin'.  So  's  she.  And  I  tell  you,  you  be  glad  of 
that  sufFerin'.  For  love  's  safe  while  you  can  suffer. 
It  '11  never  die  while  you  can  suffer.  Just  as  life  's 
safe  while  you  can  fight.  Everything 's  safe,  so 
long 's  you  can  feel  enough.  The  pitiful  thing  is 
when  you  're  too  tired  to  feel. 

"Some  way — I  don't  wanter  know  how — trouble  's 
come  between  you  and  Sombra,  black  trouble.  I 
don't  know  whose  fault  it  is.  I  ain't  faultin'  any- 
body, and  I  don't  wanter  know.  Likely  it  was  no 
one's  fault.  Just  life,  likely  as  not.  And  now 
you  're  sufferin'  for  her,  and  she  's  sufferin'  for  you." 

The  flat  voice  failed.  Maclear  saw  that  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes.  He  leaned  forward  and  laid 


THE  SNOW  199 

his  own  hand  over  those  work-crippled  ones  trembling 
on  the  table's  edge. 

"And  you  say — " 

"I  say  to  you,  be  glad  of  it.  Don't  try  and  get 
out  of  it  or  get  it  over.  Don't  try  and  forget.  Take 
it,  hold  it,  accept  of  it.  Meet  it  square.  It 's  hard. 
And  deservin'  's  nothin'  to  do  with  it.  Things  come. 
Sometimes  it 's  your  own  fault  and  sometimes  not. 
But  it 's  life.  If  you  're  goin'  to  master  life,  you 
must  take  hold  on  it.  And  be  glad  if  you  keep  the 
feelin'  to  suffer  and  the  heart  to  ache.  Be  glad  that 
whatever 's  come,  you  're  sufferin'  for  Sombra  an' 
she  for  you.  For  while  you  're  sufferin'  for  each 
other,  you  're  sufferin'  together.  And  you  can  be 
together  that  way  till  death  do  you  part." 

Presently  she  drew  her  hands  from  his.  She 
turned  away,  asking,  "What  you  goin'  to  do?" 

"I  suppose — wait." 

"That 's  right.  You  've  taken  plenty  else  she  's 
give  you.  Take  this.  Don't  try  an'  get  out  of  it. 
Meet  it  square.  Say,  before  God  'n  man,  This  is 
mine.  You  ain't  goin'  to  try  to  see  her?" 

"No.     I  know  she  's  safe  with  you." 

"That 's  right." 

He  looked  toward  her  with  a  flash  of  something 
like  jealousy.  "But  she  's  mine  yet!  They  're  both 
mine, — my  care,  my  affair.  You  understand?" 


200  THE  BRIDGE 

She  said  immediately,  with  her  strange  discord 
of  voice  and  words,  "I  couldn't  take  money  from 
such  loneliness." 

There  was  a  silence,  in  which  he  heard  the  monot- 
onous solitary  creak  of  the  pump.  It  was  broken 
by  the  woman,  saying,  "You  find  it  all  right  at  the 
Ferry  House  with  Lanssen?" 

"Yes.  Quite  all  right.  I  have  to  thank  you  for 
finding  me  a  place  where — " 

"Where  you  '11  be  near  her?  You  can  stop  there 
long  as  you  like,  I  guess.  She  won't  know.  There 's 
no  one  to  tell  her.  It 's  on  the  other  side  of  the 
river,  and  Lanssen,  he  don't  talk,  anyway.  And 
he  '11  be  glad  of  your  company." 

Maclear  did  not  reply.  She  waited,  in  her  bent, 
weary  attitude  of  inexhaustible  patience,  her  vital 
eyes  watching  him  intently.  In  a  minute  he  asked 
hoarsely,  "Mrs.  Mackerrow,  where  is  she  now?" 

"Up  in  her  room,  asleep." 

He  got  up,  walked  the  length  of  the  kitchen  and 
back.  He  stopped  in  front  of  her.  He  said,  "Let 
me  look  at  her." 

She  was  silent,  measuring  him  intently  with  her 
vivid  glance. 

"Let  me  look  at  her."  He,  who  had  had  so  much, 
who  had  fared  so  richly  in  love's  security,  was 
begging  now  for  such  crumbs  as  might  have  fallen 


THE  SNOW  201 

from  that  feast.  His  voice  broke.  "One  look — 
from  the  door." 

She  did  not  speak.  She  took  the  lamp  from  the 
table.  Motioning  him  to  quietness,  she  led  him  out 
of  the  room  and  up  the  stairs.  At  the  door  of  a 
little  room  at  the  end  of  the  upper  hall  she  paused. 
She  opened  it  silently.  Holding  the  lamp  high,  she 
stood  back  to  let  him  look  in. 

The  lamp  had  a  yellow  shade.  Like  a  blow  over 
the  heart  Maclear  realized  that  the  room  he  looked 
into  was  a  golden  one.  It  was  just  chance,  of  course, 
that  the  cheap  wall-paper,  the  carpet,  the  bedspread, 
the  common  furniture,  should  take  a  mellowed 
golden  cfolor  in  the  light  of  the  lamp. 

"...  And  it  shall  be  a  golden  room,  Som- 
bra.  ...  It  won't  be  jiftt  a  room,  you  see.  It'll 
be  a  type  of  your  golden  heart.  .  .  .  But  you  '11 
open  to  me  when  I  knock?" 

"Husband,  .  .  .  can  you  think  of  any  door,  and 
me  behind  it,  and  not  openin'  to  you?" 

Oh,  very  well  he  could  think  of  it!  She  was 
there,  within  reach  of  his  hand.  And  he  dared  not 
stretch  that  hand  out.  Within  hearing  of  his  soft- 
est word.  And  that  word  he  could  not  speak.  She 
loved  him.  And  he  might  not  go  to  her. 

His  eyes  had  blurred.  Now  they  cleared,  and  he 
saw  his  wife". 


202  THE  BRIDGE 

She  was  deeply  asleep.  She  did  not  move,  except 
that  the  yellow  crazy-quilt  lifted  with  her  breath. 

Her  beauty  was  not  changed.  Her  face  was  thin- 
ner, but  it  had  the  look  of  physical  health.  He  re- 
mained motionless  in  the  doorway,  impressing  anew 
on  his  starved  memory  every  curve  and  color,  every 
shadow  and  feature,  of  her  who  was  both  his  shadow 
and  his  light.  He  thought  that  she  had  wept  before 
she  fell  asleep. 

He  set  his  teeth.  His  fists  clenched.  She  was 
there,  within  reach  of  his  hand.  And  he  might  not 
touch  her.  If  he  went  to  her,  and  lifted  her,  and 
called  to  her  as  he  longed  to  do, — his  poor  girl! — 
if  that  face  were  against  his  heart  and  her  hands  and 
her  hair  touching  him,  she  would  be  no  nearer  him. 

He  stepped  back  with  a  little  shiver.  Mrs.  Mac- 
kerrow  closed  the  door  and  led  the  way  back  to  the 
kitchen. 

He  put  on  the  coat  he  had  slipped  off  when  he 
came  in,  and  took  his  hat.  He  went  slowly  to  the 
outer  door.  With  his  hand  on  it,  he  turned.  He 
said  briefly,  "Be  good  to  her." 

"I  will  be." 

"I  know  it.  I  can  trust  you.  When  I  learned 
they  'd  come  to  you,  I  was  glad.  They  'd  nowhere 
else  to  go.  Let  me  know  at  any  time  if — if  I  'm 
wanted,  won't  you?  There  might  be  something  I 
could  do,  without  her  having  to  be  told  of  it." 


THE  SNOW  203 

They  shook  hands.  Maclear  rode  away  wearily 
on  his  tired  horse  into  the  black-and-silver  night. 
Mrs.  Mackerrow  watched  him  till  he  vanished. 
Then  she  went  in  and  shut  the  door. 

Maclear  rode  on.  Everything  slept.  Everything 
seemed  to  have  a  refuge  but  himself  and  the  little 
bitter  wind  wandering  under  the  vast  height  of 
stars. 

He  recrossed  the  wide  pasture  and  went  back  along 
the  track  until  it  entered  at  right  angles  the  con- 
cession road,  running  straight  as  a  line,  mile  after 
mile,  between  the  moon-grayed  woods.  The  bright 
night  showed  him  more  woods  and  low  hills  in  the 
far  distance;  and  across  hill  and  plowland,  meadow 
and  marsh,  the  dwindling  silvery  line  of  the  road. 

At  the  end  of  four  miles  the  sound  of  running 
water  came  to  him  from  the  night.  He  turned  off 
the  concession  road.  Stones  rattled  under  his 
horse's  feet.  Presently  horse  and  rider  came  to  a 
river,  running  quick  and  black,  spanned  by  a  very 
rough  and  flimsy  wooden  bridge.  Near  the  other 
end  of  the  bridge,  across  the  rive*r,  some  old  wooden 
buildings  showed  on  the  bank;  and  again  Maclear 
saw  the  light  of  a  lamp  in  a  single  window,  drawing 
a  long  line  of  reflection  right  across  the  river,  and 
knew  himself  expected  and  awaited. 

Obedient  to  some  sign  he  did  not  know  he  had 
made,  the  horse  had  stopped.  Now  he  touched  it 


204  THE  BRIDGE 

with  his  heel,  and  it  moved  slowly  forward.  Its 
hoofs  took  the  loose  planking  of  the  wooden  bridge 
with  a  hollow  sound.  Through  the  flimsy  timbers 
raced  the  black  swirl  of  the  water,  powdered  with 
stars.  All  the  night  seemed  adrift,  pouring  away, 
and  he  with  it.  He  was  very  tired. 

He  rode  up  to  the  house  on  the  bank  where  the 
light  was,  and  swung  heavily  out  of  the  saddle.  A 
man  opened  the  door  and  came  out  to  him.  He  was 
a  square  man,  very  silent,  with  a  thick  thatch  of 
youthful  yellow  hair,  which  had  never  grown  gray, 
above  an  oldish  weather-beaten  face.  Lanssen  had 
been  a  sea  sailor  in  his  youth,  then  a  sailor  on  the 
lakes.  Now  he  was  come  to  keeping  the  Ferry 
House,  as  he  must  have  something  to  do  with  water. 

At  one  time  the  ferry  had  been  the  only  means  of 
crossing  the  river.  Then  the  bridge  was  built,  and 
rebuilt  or  repaired  every  spring,  as  the  ice  nearly 
always  swept  it  away  when  the  break  came.  So  the 
ferry-boat  was  still  useful,  and  Lanssen  had  the  old 
Ferry  House  rent-free  in  consideration  for  working 
the  ferry  if  it  was  wanted.  He  rented  rooms  to 
summer  visitors  in  the  season  and  had  been  glad  to 
rent  one  to  Maclear  when  Mrs.  Mackerrow  spoke  to 
him  about  it. 

He  led  the  horse  away.  Maclear  went  up  to  his 
room  overlooking  the  river.  Tired  as  he  was,  he 
could  not  rest.  He  stood  at  the  window  and  watched 


THE  SNOW  205 

the  passage,  of  the  black  current,  sweeping  away  the 
immortal  stars. 

Then  he  was  aware  of  a  faint  bitter-sweetness  in 
the  cold  room. 

He  looked.  On  the  shabby  bureau  was  a  vase  full 
of  dried  immortelles,  the  little  white  yellow-hearted 
flowers  that  grew  all  over  Tallis  Island.  He  took 
one  from  the  bunch  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

It  had  a  small,  keen,  wild  smell.  The  smell  of  the 
autumn  on  the  marshes.  Sombra  used  to  gather  the 
immortelles  and  dye  them  red  and  blue.  For  a 
minute  he  felt  her  beside  him,  acutely  near.  Then 
he  knew  he  was  alone. 

The  rough  and  pungent  scent  must  have  brought 
him  dreams.  For  when  he  slept  he  dreamed  of  the 
island.  He  was  looking  for  Sombra  there,  along  the 
marshes,  by  the  lagoons  and  the  shifting,  desolate 
hills  of  sand.  He  was  calling  her.  At  last  some  one 
answered  him.  Even  in  his  dream  he  was  amazed. 
For  it  was  not  Sombra  who  answered,  but  Gordon, 
his  brother.  And  Gordon  came  to  him  with  the  old 
look,  saying  in  the  half-forgotten  voice,  "Say,  before 
God  and  man,  this  is  mine." 

Desperately,  in  the  bonds  of  sleep,  Maclear  strove 
to  find  the  application  of  those  words.  And  like  an 
echo  they  remained  with  him  when  he  woke. 

And  that  same  night  Mrs.  Mackerrow  heard  Som- 
bra cry  out.  She  went  to  the  little  yellow  room  at 


206  THE  BRIDGE 

the  end  of  the  hall.  She  found  the  girl  wild-eyed, 
shaking,  hurrying  into  her  clothing. 

"What  is  it,  Sombra?" 

"He  's  been  here!  Oh,  he  's  near!  I  must  go! 
I  must  run  away!  He  mustn't  find  me!  I  ain't 
strong  enough,  if  he  should  find  me,  to  turn  him 
away!" 

Mrs.  Mackerrow  looked  at  her  keenly.  She  saw 
the  girl  was  dreaming,  had  no  knowledge  of  the 
truth.  And  yet  it  was  the  truth!  With  kind  hands 
and  petting  phrases,  as  to  a  child,  she  coaxed  Sombra 
back  to  bed.  And  in  the  morning  Sombra  did  not 
remember,  did  not  guess  Maclear  had  been  there. 

Later,  Maclear  wrote  to  Raynham,  from  the  Ferry 
House: 

She  's  well,  and  I  've  seen  her  again, — a  glimpse  while 
she  was  asleep.  That  glimpse  seemed  to  show  me  that  I 
must  not  try  to  see  her  yet;  and  also  that  she  needs  me 
desperately. 

I  can't  do  anything  but  wait,  near  at  hand,  until  things 
change.  They  must  change  for  good  or  evil,  though  her 
mind  shows  no  sign  of  changing.  She  is  resolute  to  keep 
apart  from  me. 

You  know  all  the  truth.  You  know  what  she  and  that 
unhappy  lad  have  been  through.  Theirs  was  never  a 
normal  life.  If  they  show  an  abnormal  reaction  in  such 
trouble  as  this,  don't  wonder  at  it.  Perhaps  this  is  purely 
a  matter  of  nerves,  overstrained  through  years,  and  will 
wear  itself  out.  I  don't  know.  I  just  have  to  go  on 
waiting. 


THE  SNOW  207 

That's  it,  Jack.  /  have  to  go  on.  I  know  that  I'm 
throwing  an  unfair  responsibility  on  you.  I  know  that  I 
should  be  back  at  work  again  if  the  business  is  ever  to  re- 
cover. I  know  all  this.  And  yet — I  must  stop  here.  It's 
as  if  I  was  kept  here,  against  my  own  will,  by  something 
stronger  than  it. 

I  Ve  a  good  deal  of  time  to  think.  And  it 's  been  im- 
pressed on  me  that  never,  since  I  came  to  Tallis  Island, 
have  I  really  decided  anything  for  myself.  At  the  last 
moment  things  have  always  been  turned  from  the  outside. 
It 's  curious.  I  've  had  about  as  much  free-will  as  sand 
or  mist  blown  in  the  wind.  And  now — I  know  that  I  just 
have  to  wait. 

It 's  hard,  this  waiting,  within  a  few  miles  of  her.  And 
yet,  there  seems  nothing  to  be  done  but  what  I  am  doing. 
You  know  the  whole  truth.  So  you  will  have  patience  with 
us  a  little  longer.  An  end  must  come  to  it  all.  I  don't 
know  how.  By  love,  or  patience,  or  death;  or  the  child. 
At  present,  the  greatest  of  these  is  patience.  And  I  won't 
add  to  what  my  poor  girl  is  suffering  by  any  act  of  mine. 
Yet  I  can't  leave  her  alone. 

The  boy 's  working  at  the  farm.  He 's  well.  I  can't 
think  of  him  yet.  It's  all  of  her. 

I  was  so  hungry  for  her  that  I  rode  across  the  river  to 
the  farm  one  night,  telling  no  one.  It  was  about  a  week 
after  I  had  seen  her.  She  has  a  room  at  the  end  of  the 
house  that  you  can  see  from  the  road.  I  saw  her  shadow 
on  the  yellow  blind. 

I  stood  in  the  road,  watching.  It  was  raining.  The 
track  was  full  of  water.  All  in  a  minute  it  seemed  to  be 
a  bottomless  abyss  plunging  between  Sombra  and  me. 
The  illusion  was  so  strong  I  backed  away  from  the  edge. 


208  THE  BRIDGE 

Mackerrow  has  a  lantern  swung  on  a  post  to  show  the 
road  to  the  barn  when  it  gets  dark  early.  This  was  lighted 
now.  And  presently  a  man  came  along  the  other  side  of 
the  road,  beyond  this  imaginary  abyss  of  mine,  and  waited 
under  the  lantern  as  though  for  me  to  join  him. 

And  for  that  minute,  Jack,  my  heart  seemed  to  be  ripped 
clear  out  of  me.  For  the  man  seemed  to  be  Gordon,  wait- 
ing there  for  me  to  cross  over  to  him. 

I  don't  know  why  I  'm  telling  you  this.  It  seems  easier 
to  tell  things  than  it  used  to  be.  I  can't  even  say  why  I 
should  have  thought  of  him  then.  That 's  over.  Heavy 
as  it  was,  God  knows,  the  old  trouble 's  lost  in  the  new  one. 
But  it  took  as  much  grit  to  cross  that  wet  road  as  to  cross 
the  gorge  of  the  Niagara. 

When  I  came  to  the  man  under  the  lantern,  he  was  light- 
ing a  corn-cob  pipe.  I  'd  never  seen  him  before.  He 
wasn't  like  G.  in  any  particular.  He  wished  me  good 
night  and  went  on.  But  for  the  moment  I'd  even  forgot- 
ten her.  I  looked  at  the  marks  the  fellow's  boots  had  left 
in  the  mud.  Queer  the  things  we  do  at  times.  Something 
impelled  me  to  go  and  stand  in  those  marks.  When  the 
light  behind  the  yellow  blind  went  out,  and  her  shadow 
with  it,  I  went  back  to  the  Ferry  House. 

So  Sombra,  thinking  herself  alone  on  her  Via  Do- 
lorosa,  had  love  watching  over  her  all  the  while. 
She  did  not  know.  She  did  not  guess  that  Maclear 
was  there,  guarding  her  as  far  as  possible,  ready  if 
she  should  need  him,  and  able  to  deny  himself,  until 
that  hour  came,  even  a  word  with  her. 

Once,  he  had  taken  all  she  gave.     Now  he  gave, 


THE  SNOW  209 

and  she  did  not  even  know  she  took  from  him,  though 
the  others  knew. 

While  they  waited,  a  great  stillness  came  on  the 
world. 


ii 


There  is  no  stillness  like  that  of  the  Northern 
woods  immediately  before  the  coming  of  the  great 
frosts  and  the  snow.  The  very  thoughts  of  the  heart 
are  stilled  with  them. 

Sombra  felt  that  it  was  good  for  her  to  be  here. 

Sometimes  she  would  walk  along  the  concession 
road  from  the  farm.  In  the  morning  hoar-frost  the 
road  lay  like  a  silver  cord  through  the  young  hard- 
wood forest.  There  were  not  many  farms.  Here 
and  there  the  log  house  of  some  first  settler  yet 
remained,  shadowed  by  a  huge  walnut  or  maple,  a 
survival  of  the  primeval  woods  destroyed  forever. 
Here  and  there  were  burnings,  where  the  silvery  rot- 
ted wrecks  of  trees  lay  like  bones.  Here  and  there 
some  wood-lot  rang  to  the  sound  of  the  ax.  But  for 
the  most  part  the  bush  stretched  quiet  and  lonely, 
elm  and  maple,  oak  and  hickory,  broken  by  the  dark 
masses  of  the  cedar  swamps  where  the  climbing  bit- 
tersweet blazed  with  berries  on  the  branches,  insist- 
ent as  a  flame  or  a  cry. 

Silence,   and  a  sense  of  waiting.     Sometimes  a 


210  THE  BRIDGE 

jay  screamed,  or  a  chattering  flock  of  grosbeaks,  late 
from  the  Arctic,  fed  among  the  pine-cones.  Streams 
ran  with  a  distant  and  muffled  sound,  as  though  they 
knew  they  would  soon  be  silent. 

Sombra's  mood  was  generally  one  of  apathy,  a 
heavy  peacefulness  like  that  which  follows  an  anaes- 
thetic. For  a  while  she  was  not  capable  of  more 
suffering. 

In  that  dead  peacefulness  she  walked  solitary,  cut 
off  from  the  world.  She  was  quite  alone.  Mrs. 
Mackerrow  did  not  know  the  truth.  Between  her  and 
Sal  there  was  a  gulf  fixed,  as  there  was  between  her 
and  Maclear.  Her  compassion  for  her  brother  never 
failed.  But  as  the  days  went  on  he  withdrew  himself 
more  and  more  from  her  pity.  He  walked  with 
shadows  she  trembled  to  comprehend.  He  was  di- 
vided from  her  by  what  he  had  done  as  by  hundreds 
of  miles  or  centuries  of  time. 

But  sometimes  the  numb  quietness  of  her  soul  was 
shattered.  Then  Sombra  walked  quickly  and  aim- 
lessly about  the  woods,  her  dark  eyes — a  little  wild 
now,  like  the  eyes  of  a  lost,  homeless  creature — see- 
ing strange  things  in  the  lonely  world  waiting  for  the 
cold. 

She  saw  a  little  child  coming  down  the  road,  jump- 
ing from  rut  to  rut.  He  was  a  sturdy  boy,  with  black 
hair  like  her  own,  and  Maclear's  blue  eyes.  He  car- 
ried a  toy  gun  with  which  he  was  pretending  to 


THE  SNOW  211 

shoot  chipmunks.  Maclear  walked  behind  him.  She 
thought  the  child,  laughing,  turned  the  gun  on  Mac- 
lear and  pretended  to  shoot  him;  and  that  Maclear, 
with  a  white,  terrible  face,  struck  the  toy  out  of  the 
child's  hands  so  roughly  that  he  screamed,  saying: 
"I  can't  bear  to  see  him  do  that.  Some  day  he  might 
do  it  in  earnest.  There  's  unknown  blood  in  him, 
dangerous  blood.  He  must  be  watched." 

The  child  changed  to  a  little  girl,  a  fairy  child  of 
whom  Maclear  seemed  sadly  tender.  Her  dress  must 
have  been  made  of  one  given  her  mother  long  agov 
for  it  was  of  yellow  silk  edged  with  fur.  Sombra 
thought  the  little  girl  grew  angry  over  some  trifle, 
stamped  her  feet,  struck  at  Maclear  with  an  absurd 
fist;  and  that  Maclear  took  a  stick  from  the  ground 
and  beat  her,  saying:  "There  's  an  unknown  strain  in 
her,  a  bad  strain.  She  must  be  taught." 

With  such  dreams  Sombra  wandered  in  her  lone- 
liness. 

Sometimes  she  walked  so  far  and  so  aimlessly 
when  these  moods  of  terror  held  her  that  Salvator  had 
to  follow  her  and  fetch  her  home.  She  was  always 
gentle  and  obedient  to  him  when  he  found  her. 

Not  far  away  was  a  new  railway  embankment. 
And  close  to  the  concession  road  some  of  the  work- 
men who  had  been  employed  on  it  in  the  summer  had 
built  a  shack  under  a  silver  maple.  Many  of  these 
workmen  were  Italians.  Whoever  built  the  shack  had 


212  THE  BRIDGE 

also  made  a  wooden  cross,  cut  and  carved  it  with 
rough  grace,  and  nailed  it  to  the  overshadowing  tree, 
whose  dead  leaves  now  half  filled  the  hut. 

Sombra  liked  to  come  here  and  crouch  in  the 
leaves  and  think,  and  think. 

She  wondered  if  there  was  any  way  in  which  she 
could  right  the  wrong  which  she  conceived  she  had 
done  to  Maclear  when  she  allowed  him  to  bind  his 
life  to  hers.  She  was  not  altogether  of  the  North. 
There  was  a  power  for  tragedy  in  her  humility,  in  her 
passionate  renunciation.  She  sought  for  any  means 
by  which  she  might  mark  afresh  the  division  between 
herself  and  the  man  she  was  saving  from  herself. 

Dangerous,  too,  in  her  strained  visionary  mood, 
was  her  simplicity.  She  saw  the  bare  facts,  without 
excuse,  without  alleviation,  as  a  child  sees. 

She  saw  the  years  men  call  dead,  under  whose 
shadow  she  had  lived  all  her  life,  stretching  out  their 
hands  from  vanished  Time,  touching  her  happiness, 
touching  Salvator,  shattering  them.  Through  her, 
she  resolved,  no  shadow  of  that  past  should  darken 
Maclear. 

She  spent  all  her  days  thinking  how  she  might 
finally  evade  him. 

And  sitting  so,  thinking,  thinking,  in  the  shack 
under  the  tree,  at  last  she  saw  him. 

It  was  impossible  that  he  should  remain  so  near 
her  and  that  she  should  never  know.  She  had  bent 


THE  SNOW  213 

her  head  a  moment  under  the  growing  weight  of  those 
thoughts  of  hers.  She  raised  it,  and  he  was  coming 
down  the  road  toward  her,  leading  a  horse. 

He  was  there.  She  had  only  to  speak,  to  call, 
and  the  gulf  would  be  spanned.  She  crawled  to  the 
back  of  the  hut,  cowering  among  the  blown  leaves. 
She  dared  not  move  for  fear  they  should  rustle.  Her 
spirit  seemed  ready  to  break  free,  her  whole  being 
strained  toward  him  like  smoke  on  the  wind.  And 
she  hardly  dared  breathe,  lest  he  should  hear. 

He  did  not  hear.  He  did  not  guess  she  was  there. 
It  seemed  impossible  that  they  should  be  so  much 
the  slave  of  the  narrow  senses  that  a  little  wall  of 
split  cedar  could  imprison  her  agony  of  longing  for 
his  touch,  his  voice.  Yet  so  it  was. 

She  watched  him,  her  hands  across  her  mouth  for 
fear  that  longing  should  break  from  her  in  a  cry. 
There  was  a  small  stream  by  the  shack.  And  supple 
and  strong,  he  came  down  to  it,  his  calm  face  intent. 
Against  his  arm  the  horse  thrust  a  gentle  nose.  Their 
footfalls  were  deadened  on  the  soft  earth.  They 
seemed  to  come  like  shadows  from  the  woods. 

Arrived  at  the  shallows,  Maclear  felt  the  horse's 
flanks,  loosed  the  bit,  and  let  him  drink.  He  stood 
near;  presently  he  stooped  and  washed  his  hands  in 
the  cold  water.  The  horse  lifted  its  head,  snuffing 
the  air.  Maclear  said,  "Done,  Joe?"  and  the 
beast's  soft  eyes  turned  to  him  as  though  in  kindly 


214  THE  BRIDGE 

answer.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice  Sombra  slipped 
to  her  face  in  the  shack,  blinding  her  eyes,  covering 
her  ears.  Maclear,  leading  his  horse  past  the  shack, 
heard  the  little  rustle  of  her  fall.  He  thought  it  was 
a  squirrel  stirring.  He  went  on. 

When  he  was  gone,  Sombra  crept  from  the  shack 
and  looked  about  her.  The  vacant  woods  rose  upon 
her  eyes,  a  horror  of  emptiness  like  the  night;  the 
very  air  seemed  drawn  out  of  the  world,  leaving 
earth  and  sky  brittle  and  dry,  and  ready  to  flare  into 
fire  and  crumble  at  a  breath. 

Cries  broke  from  her  now  that  there  was  no  one 
to  hear.  She  began  to  run  after  him,  breaking 
through  the  bushes,  stumbling  over  thimbleberry 
vines,  sobbing  and  wringing  her  hands  foolishly. 
Those  few  minutes  in  the  shack  had  left  her  weak  as 
bodily  effort  could  not  weaken  her.  She  ran  a  little 
way  along  Maclear's  track,  and  fell. 

Salvator,  looking  for  her  along  the  road  perhaps 
two  hours  later,  found  her  lying  there  yet,  her  hands 
covering  a  hoof-print  Maclear's  horse  had  left. 

She  was  quite  conscious.  When  her  brother  raised 
her  to  her  feet  she  could  walk,  leaning  on  him.  Her 
one  prayer,  so  wildly  made  that  he  was  terrified,  was 
that  he  should  take  her  home:  "Take  me  back  and 
hide  me;  hide  me,  so  I  won't  see  him  any  more." 

He  began  to  lead  her  back  to  the  farm.  They  had 
not  walked  half  a  mile  when  she  fell  once  more. 


THE  SNOW  215 

It  was  neither  a  faint  nor  an  illness,  simply  a  fail- 
ure of  strength;  sense,  motion,  life  itself,  seemed 
taken  from  her.  Salvator  carried  her  back  to  the 
little  shack  and  laid  her  on  the  dry  leaves. 

He  called  her,  held  her  in  his  arms,  chafed  her 
hands.  She  turned  her  head  from  him  with  a  little 
weary  murmur.  She  was  beyond  his  reach.  That 
weary,  patient  murmur  of  denial  was  all  she  had  for 
him. 

He  took  off  his  own  coat  and  wrapped  it  round  her. 
Over  her  feet  he  heaped  the  dry  leaves.  His  re- 
served and  secret  face  never  changed.  But  he  had 
kissed  her  feet  before  he  covered  them. 

Then  he  went  out  of  the  shack  and  left  her,  her 
pale  face  turned  to  the  wall. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  turned  in  the  direc- 
tion Maclear  had  taken,  and  ran. 

Maclear,  riding  back,  saw  the  boy  running  to  meet 
him.  Fear  leapt  in  him,  vivid  and  alive.  When 
Salvator  reached  him,  and  stood  panting  at  the 
horse's  shoulder,  he  could  say  only,  "Sombra?" 

"Back  there.  In  a  little  shack  near  the  road. 
She  saw  you." 

"She  's— sick?" 

"No.  Like  as  if  she  was  dyin',  though  there  's 
nothin'  the  matter  with  her  I  can  make  out.  Dyin' 
for  you,  Alan." 

Maclear  waited  an  instant.     Then  he  said,  "Go 


216  THE  BRIDGE 

back  and  get  whatever  you  think  we'll  need,  and 
bring  it  there." 

"Will  I  get  them  to  come?" 

Again  Maclear  waited.  Then  he  said  in  a  low 
voice:  "No.  Not  yet.  Leave  her  with  me." 

His  thought  was  that  he  might  be  an  hour  with  her 
alone. 

After  a  few  more  hurried  questions  he  rode  to  the 
shack.  Salvator  -went  to  the  farm.  When  he 
reached  the  shack  again  it  was  late.  He  heard  Mac- 
lear's  voice  from  within,  speaking  to  Sombra. 

m 

"Sombra!" 

Salvator  had  brought  a  bottle  of  hot  milk,  brandy, 
a  blanket.  Maclear  was  holding  a  tin  cup  in  one 
hand,  and  turning  Sombra's  face  gently  toward  him 
with  the  other.  There  was  no. response  in  that  ivory 
oval,  no  tremor  in  the  pathetic  lips,  no  stir  of  the 
heavy  eyelids. 

"Sombra." 

"She  does  n't  hear  you." 

Maclear  looked  across  quietly  at  Sal.  "Not  yet. 
But  she  will."  He  called  again,  patiently,  persist- 
ently: "Sombra,  Sombra." 

By  and  by  there  was  the  palest  change  in  her  face, 
like  the  change  in  the  sky,  heralding  a  dawn.  She 


THE  SNOW  217 

did  not  stir  nor  open  her  eyes.  But  he  said  to  Sal,  in 
the  same  assured  way,  "Now  she  hears  me." 

"I  thought  she  was  dead — too." 

Maclear  looked  again  at  Sal,  remembering  that 
this  was  the  first  time  they  had  been  together  since 
Sal  and  Sombra  left  the  island.  He  said:  "No. 
She  will  not  die.  See.  Watch  her.  Sombra." 

Again  that  faint  stir  of  the  face,  like  the  passage  of 
light  rather  than  movement.  They  waited.  In  the 
silence  they  heard  the  horse  tossing  his  head  under 
the  maple;  the  stream,  growing  gray  in  the  evening 
mist,  seemed  to  change  its  note  with  its  color,  and 
they  heard  it;  heard,  too,  that  first  breath  from  her 
lips  that  shaped  his  name. 

"Alan—" 

Salvator,  watching,  saw  the  man's  face  contract  as 
though  under  the  sharpest  pain.  Her  eyes  were 
open,  looking  at  her  husband.  She  was  smiling  at 
him  with  her  old  look  of  exquisite  surrender.  Both 
knew  that  she  had  forgotten,  that  she  had  gone  back  to 
the  earlier  days  of  her  love. 

This  was  perhaps  the  hardest  thing  Maclear  had 
had  to  bear, — that  she  should  have  forgotten  the  divi- 
sion she  herself  had  made  between  them,  and  that  he 
should  have  to  remember  it. 

"Sombra." 

"What  a  long  time  you  've  been  gone,  dear  love!" 

"Drink  this,  Sombra." 


218  THE  BRIDGE 

She  sipped  the  milk  obediently  from  the  tin  cup. 
Then  she  shut  her  eyes.  "No  more.  I  'm  kind  of 
tired.  I  don't  want  any  more." 

"A  little  more,  Sombra." 

She  shook  her  head,  as  it  rested  on  his  arm,  with 
her  plaintive  murmur  of  refusal;  but  she  was  smil- 
ing faintly. 

"Sombra." 

After  a  while  she  whispered  again,  "Alan."  And 
the  lovely  secret  smile  transfigured  her. 

"You  must  take  a  little  more.  Come,  child.  Be 
good." 

Like  a  child  she  murmured,  "Must  I?" 

"Yes." 

Once  iriore  she  drank  from  the  little  tin  cup. 
Maclear  asked  quickly  of  Sal:  "Did  you  bring  any- 
thing to  eat?" 

Sal  gave  him  some  soft  bread.  Maclear  soaked 
little  pieces  of  it  in  the  milk  and  fed  her  with  them 
one  by  one;  let  her  rest;  called  her  back,  and  fed 
her  again.  So  for  an  hour,  while  the  boy  watched; 
and  over  the  silent  woods  stole  the  cold  night  fringed 
with  stars. 

At  last  Maclear  said  to  Sal,  "She  '11  be  all  right 
now." 

"You  Ve  brought  her  back." 

"Yes.     Once  you  brought  her  back  for  me.     Now 


THE  SNOW  219 

I  Ve  brought  her  back  for  you.  I  suppose  Macker- 
row  will  come  and  fetch  her  home?" 

"He  said,  soon  as  Bassett  gets  in  with  the  horses." 

The  lad  was  sitting  in  the  doorway,  his  face  turned 
from  Maclear  toward  the  glimmering  dusk.  No  one 
could  have  read  the  thoughts  of  his  heart.  Maclear 
laid  Sombra  down  in  her  nest  of  dry  maple  leaves, 
and  at  the  movement  she  opened  her  eyes  again  and 
smiled  upward  drowsily.  Maclear's  face  was  drawn 
and  sharpened  as  though  with  fatigue;  he  rose  stiffly 
to  his  feet.  Instantly  her  outstretched  hand  groped 
for  him.  He  gave  his  own  into  it,  and  she  was  still. 
Bending  over  her,  he  said,  "SombraJ" 

"Alan,"  she  answered  at  once  from  the  gateway  of 
consciousness. 

"Do  you  feel  ill,  Sombra?  Are  you  in  any 
pain?"  " 

"No.     No.     Only  tired." 

He  leaned  lower.  "Rest,  my  dear  heart,  my  poor 
girl." 

The  boy  in  the  doorway  bent  his  head  until  his 
face  was  hidden  on  his  knees.  He  sat  very  still. 
His  somber  courage  would  not  have  escaped  any  of 
these  words,  any  more  than  he  would  have  run  from 
steel  or  fire. 

"Alan." 

"Yes,  love?" 


220  THE  BRIDGE 

"Why  are  you  goin'  away?" 

"I  must  go,  Sombra." 

"Why?" 

"There 's — something  you  asked  me  to  do  for 
you." 

"Is  there?     How  queer!     I  don't  remember." 

"I  remember." 

"That 's  right.  My  head  's  kind  of  tired.  Every- 
thing 's  a  long  ways  off.  I  forget.  But  it 's  all 
right  if  you  remember." 

"It's  all  right  if  I  remember." 

"You  're  so  good  to  me,  Alan.  You  always  was. 
You  're  always  givin'  me  things  and  doin'  things  for 
me.  There  's  one  thing — I  know  there  's  somethin' 
big  I  asked  you  to  do  for  me.  Never  mind  now. 
You  're  goin'  to  do  it." 

"I  'm  going  to  do  it." 

"And  it  '11  take  you  some  while?" 

He  was  silent  a  moment.  His  voice  was  low  as 
hers,  as  he  answered:  "It  '11  take  a  long  while,  Som- 
bra. It  '11  take  me — a  long  way." 

"And  you  don't  mind?" 

"It  takes  me  away  from  you,  dear  heart." 

"And  you  can't  get  along  very  well  without  me, 
can  you,  poor  boy?" 

Something  of  the  old  wondering,  starry  compassion 
was  in  her  eyes,  those  shadowed  eyes  that  still  saw 


THE  SNOW  221 

only  dreams.  She  said  in  her  murmuring  voice:  "I 
know  it  was  somethin'  that  had  to  be  done,  dear,  or 
I  would  n't  let  you  do  it.  Go  quick,  so  you  '11  come 
back  to  me  quick.  It 's  somethin'  that  must  be  done; 
ain't  it?" 

"So  you  say,  Sombra." 

"Or  I  would  n't  let  you  go.  I  don't  remember. 
But  it  seems  like  as  if  you  'd  been  gone  a  long  time. 
A  long  time.  Kiss  me  before  you  go,  Alan." 

In  silence  he  knelt  and  touched  the  chill  pure  curve 
of  her  cheek  with  his  colder  lips.  Something  higher 
was  here  than  passion.  Something  greater  than  long- 
ing. She  lifted  her  hand  languidly  and  just  touched 
his  face  in  the  dusk,  with  a  caress  like  a  child's.  She 
said :  "Good-by,  dear  love.  I  '11  sleep  till  you  get 
back.  Then  I'll  be  well."  She  slept  before  he 
could  rise  from  his  knees. 

Presently  he  freed  his  hand,  went  to  the  door,  and 
stood  there  without  speech  or  movement.  If  he  had 
been  aware  of  himself  at  all  he  would  have  known 
that  when  he  rose  from  his  knees  to  leave  her  he 
stood  at  a  greater  height  than  his  own  stature. 

After  a  while  he  said  quietly,  even  cheerfully: 
"Well,  she  will  be  all  right  now.  You  need  n't  be 
afraid  for  her.  Mackerrow  will  be  along  soon,  and 
then  you  can  get  her  home." 

He  went  out,  and  patted  the  patient  horse  standing 


222  THE  BRIDGE 

under  the  maple.     Without  stirring,  Salvator  asked, 
"Alan,  you  goin'  to  leave  her?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  my  God,  Alan!  You  goin'  to  let  her  leave 
you?" 

"Yes." 

"She  's  doin'  it.     But  she  '11  die  of  it." 

"No.  Oh,  no,  she  won't  die.  It 's — steady,  now, 
Joe! — it 's  wonderful  what  people  can  bear,  and  not 
die." 

The  boy  with  the  hidden  face  heard  the  light  stir 
of  hoofs  in  the  leaves  as  Maclear  rode  past  him.  He 
said  softly,  "Take  care  of  her,  Sal." 

In  a  flash  Salvator  was  running  at  his  stirrup.  He 
said,  lifting  his  dark  face  to  Maclear  and  speaking 
breathlessly,  "You  give  me  that  to  do  for  you?" 

"Yes." 

"To  take  care  of  her — for  you?" 

"Yes.  Do  it  as  you  have  all  along.  For  me  too 
now." 

"I  'd  die  for  you,  Alan,"  said  Sal,  clearly. 

Maclear  stooped  from  the  saddle  and  touched  the 
boy  's  shoulder.  "Live  for  her,"  he  said,  and  turned 
his  horse  to  the  bank  and  was  gone,  in  a  flurry  of 
leaves  like  birds. 

Long  after  he  was  gone,  long  after  Mackerrow  had 
come  with  the  creaking  farm  wagon  banked  with  hay 
and  blankets  and  taken  Sombra  home,  long  after  the 


THE  SNOW  223 

night  had  flooded  in  upon  the  world  like  a  deep  sea, 
Salvator  remained  at  the  shack. 

After  a  long,  long  while  light  stole  over  the  world ; 
it  was  as  though  the  cold  blue  waters  of  night, 
drowned  in  which  all  life  had  lain,  thinned  and 
changed;  the  voice  of  the  running  water  changed. 
When  the  dawn  came,  it  showed  the  shack,  the  woods, 
the  earth  itself  furred  thick  with  the  dazzling  sub- 
stance of  the  white  frost.  Each  twig  was  a  crystal 
against  the  pale  yellow  sky. 

In  all  this  unearthly  world,  the  running  of  the 
brook  alone  made  any  sound. 

And  Salvator  was  standing  against  the  wall  of  the 
shack,  his  arms  spread  out  on  each  side  of  him  so 
that  his  body  formed  a  cross.  It  was  a  white  cross, 
for  he  was  silvered  from  head  to  foot  with  the  frost. 
His  dark  eyes,  hollowed  by  those  hours,  stared  up- 
ward at  the  wooden  cross  nailed  upon  the  tree. 

He,  too,  was  not  all  of  the  North.  Dim  powers, 
passionate  repentances,  unknown  strivings  of  other 
lives  commanded  him.  He  had  been  standing  before 
the  cross  all  night. 


rv 


And  as  though  the  frost,  which  was  silently  blot- 
ting out  all  memory  of  love  and  summer  from  the 
mind  of  the  earth,  worked  in  the  same  way  on  her 


224  THE  BRIDGE 

own  mind,  Sombra  had  no  memory  of  those  hours  in 
which  she  had  lain  in  the  shack,  in  which  Maclear's 
hands  had  been  about  her  and  his  face  near  hers;  in 
which  he  had  called  and  she  had  answered. 

The  time  was  one  of  unimaginable  stillness,  purity, 
and  beauty.  A  little  light  snow  fell  every  night. 
The  earth  yet  had  life  in  it;  the  streams  ran  between 
delicate  fringes  of  ice  and  the  ferns  were  green  under 
this  snow.  It  was  tender  and  harmless  as  flowers. 
It  hid  the  first  advance  of  death  under  a  covering 
that  seemed  as  mild  as  the  blades  and  leaves  of 
spring. 

The  woods  were  very  silent.  Only  on  sunny  noons 
the  black  squirrels,  most  noiseless  of  their  kind, 
looped  about  the  birch  trunks  in  a  silent  ecstasy  of 
play. 

Maclear  saw  silver  ice  in  the  river  shallows  every 
morning.  But  it  melted  soon.  The  clear  dark  water 
flowed  free  and  strong.  It  seemed  impossible  any- 
thing should  ever  prevent  it  in  its  course  toward  the 
great  lake  and  the  ultimate  seas. 

It  was  like  the  current  of  human  life,  human  love, 
sweeping  onward  to  an  unimaginable  fulfilment. 

So  by  day.  But  at  night,  crossing  the  bridge, 
Maclear  would  feel  on  his  face  a  bitter  wind,  creep- 
ing down  the  river  channel  from  the  hills.  It  slid 
out  of  a  far  distance  like  a  blade,  and  caught  the 
breath,  and  sent  the  blood  back  upon  the  heart.  And 


THE  SNOW  225 

he  would  see,  behind  those  hills,  the  green  ice-blink, 
reflection  of  the  Arctic  floes,  glimmer  like  low  moon- 
light all  night  long. 

There  came  a  day  when,  waking  in  his  gaunt  room 
at  the  Ferry  House,  he  felt  a  subtle  change,  not  only 
that  of  temperature.  It  was  as  though  a  battle  had 
joined  unawares  while  he  slept. 

Behind  the  Ferry  House  to  the  north  rose  a  ridge 
of  land  grown  with  thin  pines.  Toward  them,  in  the 
glittering  golden  morning,  Maclear  climbed.  And 
as  he  climbed  from  the  hollow  to  the  height,  he  heard 
above  him  the  sound  of  a  tide;  a  sound  solemn  in 
the  sun,  and  inhuman, — the  going  of  the  great  north 
wind. 

On  the  ridge  it  met  him  full.  It  marched  to  meet 
him  with  leveled  spears. 

Perhaps,  in  the  great  ocean  of  air,  some  current 
a  thousand  miles  away  on  the  shores  of  a  frozen  sea 
had  given  that  wind  birth.  And  it  had  swept  south 
across  the  musk-ox  pastures,  across  the  desolate 
tundra,  and  the  caribou-moss,  and  all  the  Land  of 
Little  Sticks,  drawing  in  its  wake  the  snow,  bearing 
on  its  wings  the  frost.  Already,  as  Maclear  de- 
scended the  hill,  the  ruts  of  the  track  were  ringing 
hard  as  iron  in  full  sun;  already  the  trees  looked 
dead  and  brittle  as  wire  against  a  heaven  of  blue 
stone. 

By  the  river  he  stood  and  saw  the  cold  at  work. 


226  THE  BRIDGE 

Where  a  shadow  touched  the  water  by  the  shore,  a 
long  frost-leaf,  unimaginably  delicate  and  beautiful, 
built  itself  from  the  element.  The  shadow  length- 
ened, and  the  leaf  lengthened,  throwing  out  branches, 
buds,  other  fronds;  thickening,  whitening,  until  all 
that  little  inlet  was  subject  to  the  frost.  And  that 
was  going  on  all  along  the  shores.  Every  stone  and 
lily-pad  was  a  vantage-point  for  the  ice. 

In  a  thicket  of  seeded  goldenrod  behind  the  Mac- 
kerrows'  orchard  Sombra,  wandering  in  the  sun,  saw 
a  small  golden  thing  lying  among  the  brown  stems. 
She  stooped  and  took  it  in  her  hand. 

It  was  a  little  goldfinch,  a  thistle-bird  from  one  of 
those  great  flocks  which  she  had  heard  passing  over 
Tallis  Island  in  the  night,  their  voices  piping  bravely 
to  one  another  under  the  great  void  of  stars.  Per- 
haps this  was  the  very  last  of  those  weak,  heroic  trav- 
elers, fallen  by  the  way. 

Salvator,  coming  to  look  for  her  with  his  continual 
watchfulness,  found  her  holding  the  little  yellow 
bird  to  her  heart,  while  her  tears  fell  on  it. 

So  the  winter  came. 


In  the  strange  silence  and  idleness  of  that  winter 
to  which  Maclear,  the  man  of  action,  was  condemned, 
he  found  his  mind  occupied,  as  once  it  had  been  oc- 


THE  SNOW  227 

cupied  with  the  blown  sands  of  Tallis  Island,  with 
the  struggle  of  the  river  against  the  cold. 

It  was  a  struggle  that  seemed  almost  human,  almost 
conscious.  Like  the  innumerable  indestructible 
sands,  like  the  unremembering  mists,  it  seemed  to 
have  a  meaning  for  him. 

Night  by  night,  the  plates  and  scales  of  delicate 
ice  crept  out  from  the  banks.  Day  by  day  the  river 
broke  them  down.  Yet  they  increased,  advanced  to- 
ward one  another;  and  between  them  the  current  of 
living  water  ran  narrower  and  narrower. 

Then  there  were  days  of  iron  frost  in  the  hills, 
and  the  lakes  that  fed  the  river  froze  deep.  After 
that  came  a  sudden  thaw  and  rain,  which  presently 
froze  as  it  fell,  a  glittering  rain  as  of  glass.  But 
the  thaw  had  shaken  the  ice  in  the  headwaters;  and 
down  the  river  came  the  floe  like  the  April  ice- 
break  out  of  time,  to  swing  and  grind  on  the  shallows, 
to  pack  against  the  groaning  piles  of  the  bridge,  and 
to  link  bank  to  bank  in  a  rubble  of  wild  crystals  in 
a  single  zero  night. 

And  prisoned  and  bound  as  it  was,  the  river  still 
fought.  It  sent  black  runnels  to  carve  the  stranded 
ice  into  islands.  It  pressed  and  fingered  against  the 
grounded  pack  above  the  bridge.  It  hollowed  the 
shore  ice  into  great  milky  bubbles,  and  cut  unseen 
pits  and  holes  in  its  barriers.  It  worked  with  a  si- 
lent and  inexhaustible  patience.  It  seemed  to  pre- 


228  THE  BRIDGE 

figure  some  force  which  thus,  in  patience  and  silence, 
worked  forever  against  the  waste  and  ruin  of  life. 

Lanssen  said,  "That  bridge,  she  won't  hold  till 
spring." 

Maclear  always  seemed  to  see  Lanssen  through 
the  steam  of  a  kettle.  In  his  old  age  he  suffered 
much  from  cold  feet,  and  sat  with  his  striped,  stock- 
inged feet  curved  for  hours  over  a  stone  hot-water 
bottle,  which  he  constantly  refilled.  He  continued 
placidly,  "Aye,  the  bridge,  she  '11  go,  and  the  boat 
she  won't  be  no  good,  and  we  '11  be  cut  off.  Cut  off, 
we  '11  be.  I  'm  just  as  glad.  There  always  conies 
water  in  the  boat  and  gets  my  feet  cold." 

Now  and  then  Maclear  saw  Sal,  hauling  loads  of 
wood  to  the  town.  The  boy  did  not  stop.  And  there 
came  no  message  from  the  farm. 

Silence,  patience,  and  the  heart's  indestructible 
faith,  fighting;  fighting  all  the  time,  like  the  river. 

At  last  the  bridge  went.  The  pressure  of  the  ice 
and  the  water  behind  the  ice  crushed  it  into  a  litter 
of  planks  and  posts.  Black  water  rushed  over  the 
ice-cakes,  spread,  and  froze.  The  pack  groaned, 
heaved,  and  swept  forward,  to  ground  again  a  little 
below.  The  thrust  subsided.  Lanssen,  who  had 
been  watching  from  the  bank  with  Maclear,  said, 
"Now  we're  cut  off.  I  go  V  fill  my  bottle." 

But  later  Maclear  heard  the  old  man  roaring: 


THE  SNOW  229 

"You  go  back!  Quid,  I  tell  you!  That  ice,  she  won't 
bear!  She  's  shook!" 

Maclear  went  out  again  into  the  cold  gray  day. 
It  was  one  of  those  days  that  lend  to  everything  the 
clearness  and  stillness  of  glass.  In  this  translucent 
light  he  saw  Mackerrow's  big  bay  team,  hauling  the 
wood-sleigh,  drawn  up  on  the  other  side  of  the  river. 
Bassett  was  at  the  horses'  heads.  As  Maclear 
watched  he  saw  the  man  move.  The  horses'  heads 
bowed,  their  breath  steamed  in  the  stillness. 

The  sleigh  went  forward,  creaking.  Bassett  led 
the  team  out  on  the  ice  below  the  wreck  of  the  bridge. 

"You're  crazy!  You!  Go  back!  Quid,  I  tell 
you!"  Old  Lanssen  added  strange  Scandinavian 
oaths.  Bassett  did  not  stop.  He  looked  over  at 
them  a  moment,  and  they  saw  his  teeth  white  between 
the  upturned  points  of  his  mackinaw  collar  as  he 
grinned  at  them.  Then  he  continued,  coaxing  the 
horses,  who  were  scared,  slipping  on  the  ice. 

The  sleigh  came  toward  them.  Lanssen  was  mut- 
tering angrily:  "That  feller!  He  always  know  too 
much.  I  tell  him,  the  ice,  she  's  shook.  She — " 

He  stopped  abruptly.  At  the  same  moment,  and 
as  it  seemed  noiselessly  in  that  silvery  stillness,  the 
sleigh  tilted  up.  One  of  the  horses  rose  straight 
against  the  pole,  pawing  the  air,  a  living  picture  of 
terror.  The  other  was  down.  They  saw  a  black 


230  THE  BRIDGE 

ring  spreading,  rushing  on  the  white  surface  around 
the  sleigh.  They  saw  Bassett,  to  his  credit,  with  a 
bared  knife,  slashing  at  the  harness.  Then  the  black- 
ness, which  was  water,  seemed  to  spread  and  rise  and 
swallow  them  like  night. 

All  happened  so  swiftly  that  it  was  like  a  picture 
thrown  for  a  moment  on  a  white  sheet  and  flashing 
away.  Maclear  took  one  leap  back  to  the  house, 
caught  up  an  ax,  and  ran  back  with  it.  He  heard 
old  Lanssen  say  wretchedly,  "Now  I  got  to  get  my 
feet  cold."  Then  they  too  were  out  on  the  ice,  run- 
ning toward  the  place  where  it  was  broken. 

It  was  a  clean  break.  The  edge,  that  is,  was  solid, 
— eight  inches  of  gray  river  ice,  veined  and  grained 
like  marble.  On  the  side  nearer  the  Ferry  House, 
Bassett  was  clinging,  his  wet  face  upturned,  blued  al- 
ready about  the  mouth  from  the  cold.  Behind  him 
was  a  boiling  trouble  in  the  water. 

Maclear  flung  himself  flat  on  the  edge  and  caught 
Bassett  by  the  wrists.  Lanssen  grabbed  Maclear 
round  the  body  and  hauled.  They  had  Bassett  out 
on  the  ice  in  a  moment.  He  lay  an  instant,  gasping, 
then  staggered  to  his  feet  and  ran  round  to  the 
other  side  of  the  hole.  He  stammered :  "Bully 's 
down  and  under.  But  there  's  Bud." 

Maclear  said  to  Lanssen,  "Go  and  get  some  boards 
and  rope."  He  said  to  Bassett,  "Catch  hold  of  my 
legs,  and  don't  let  go."  He  lay  down  again  on  the 


THE  SNOW  231 

ice,  leaning  far  over  that  black  trouble  of  the  water. 
Bassett's  half -numbed  hands  were  gripped  round  his 
ankles.  Maclear  had  his  knife  in  his  hand.  He 
groped,  found  a  taut  strap,  and  slashed  fiercely.  He 
was  almost  under  water,  the  cold  of  it  stung  like 
fire.  The  strap  broke.  He  found  a  thicker  one,  and 
sawed  through  that.  A  horse  's  brown  head  surged 
suddenly  to  the  surface,  wild,  straining,  terrible, 
fighting  humanly  for  breath.  Poor  Bully  was  gone> 
under  the  ice.  But  here  was  Bud.  Bassett  released 
Maclear,  ran  forward,  and  held  the  horse  under  the 
jaw,  keeping  his  head  up.  Presently  the  beast 
quieted,  with  long  shuddering  snorts  and  rolling  eyes. 
Bassett  repeated  continually  in  his  trembling  voice: 
"I  won't  quit  you,  Buddy,  ole  feller.  It  was  my 
fault.  I  won't  quit  you." 

Lanssen  came  back  with  ropes  and  boards.  They 
got  Bud  out  at  last  with  a  running-tackle  rigged  on  the 
ice,  Bassett  going  again  into  the  bitter  water,  and 
standing  on  the  sunken  sleigh  to  hitch  the  rope 
round  the  beast's  body.  When  he  came  out,  he 
was  pretty  well  exhausted.  Lanssen  said:  "You 
better  come  on  over  to  my  place,  an'  we  '11  get  our 
feets  warmed.  You — " 

A  sound  like  the  boom  of  a  gun  came  from  the 
water-worn  hollows  beneath  them.  The  ice  on  which 
they  stood  vibrated  like  a  stretched  string.  Maclear, 
Bassett,  and  the  horse  plunged  for  the  bank.  Lans- 


232  THE  BRIDGE 

sen  turned  and  ran  for  the  Ferry  House.  They  all 
gained  solid  earth  at  the  same  time,  and  looked 
around.  Great  cracks  were  starring  the  ice  in  all 
directions.  Black  veins  opened  as  they  looked. 
Some  mysterious  balance  had  been  disturbed  when 
the  team  went  through.  Now,  it  would  be  a  hazard- 
ous chance  for  a  man  to  attempt  the  crossing. 

Lassen,  on  the  Ferry  House  side,  raised  an  arm 
to  Maclear.  "I  told  you  we'd  be  cut  off/'  he 
i  oared  placidly,  "and  we  be.  You  better  take  that 
feller  along  to  the  farm.  I  'm  goin'  to  get  my  bottle 
heated  up.  My  feet  're  cold." 

He  vanished.  Maclear  looked  at  the  shivering 
man,  the  shivering  horse.  He  said:  "Come  on. 
We  '11  have  to  go  to  the  farm." 

Bassett  groaned,  "I  dunno  's  I  can  walk." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can,"  Maclear  assured  him  grimly. 
"You  Ve  got  to  run." 

They  started  off  at  a  sharp  trot,  leading  the  horse 
between  them.  Maclear  himself  was  wet  to  the 
waist.  Presently  their  blood  warmed  painfully  with 
the  motion.  At  first  they  had  dragged  Bud.  Now, 
with  a  thought  of  his  stable  ahead,  he  dragged  them, 
his  big  hoofs,  that  had  all  but  smashed  Bassett's  life 
out,  going  like  hammers.  That  was  the  only  sound 
in  the  woods, — thud,  thud,  thud,  thud.  Like  the 
beating  of  a  heart.  A  heart  straining  toward  home. 

They  reached  the  rise  of  the  track,  and  stood  a  mo- 


THE  SNOW  233 

ment,  looking  down  toward  the  farm.  They  could 
not  see  it.  Then  Maclear  was  aware  for  the  first 
time  of  a  faint  continuous  sigh  and  rustle  throughout 
all  the  woods.  There  was  no  wind.  He  lifted  his 
face.  Something  small  and  light  touched  his  cheek. 

"This  '11  be  the  first  heavy  fall  of  the  year,"  panted 
Bassett. 

Maclear  did  not  answer.  There  was  something 
in  the  sound  that  hushed  the  voice  and  seemed  a 
warning  to  the  mind.  It  was  so  gentle,  ceaseless,  and 
inevitable, — this  sound  of  innumerable  grains  of  dry 
snow,  falling,  falling  on  the  woods. 

They  went  down  to  the  farm. 

An  hour  later  Sal,  coming  from  the  barn  where 
he  had  been  tending  Bud,  saw  Sombra  standing  in 
the  yard,  waiting  for  him. 

In  that  hour  the  snow  had  wonderfully  increased. 
Already  it  was  curding  into  a  crisped  ripple  by 
every  stake  in  the  fence,  around  the  root  of  every 
tree.  The  air  was  a  haze  of  delicate  grains,  dry 
and  fine  as  dust.  They  drove  along  the  hard  earth 
with  an  incessant  whisper  that  was  the  very  note  of 
forgetfulness. 

Sombra  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  the  snow. 
She  must  have  been  waiting  for  her  brother  some 
lime.  Her  face  was  pinched  and  wan.  In  that  hour 
even  her  beauty  seemed  to  have  perished.  With  a 
little  gesture  of  despair,  the  boy  ran  to  her. 


234  THE  BRIDGE 

"Sombra!  We  thought  you  was  down  in  the 
chicken  house.  Why  did  n't  you  come  into  the  barn 
if  you  wanted  me?" 

She  lifted  her  head.  The  dry  snow  lay  like  a 
whitening  of  years  on  her  hair.  She  looked  at  Sal 
with  a  passion  so  intent,  an  appeal  so  wild,  that  his 
heart  gave  a  great  leap.  He  said:  "Sombra!  What 
you  want?"  and  foreknowledge  sank  his  voice  to  a 
protest,  a  whisper.  He  stood  facing  her.  He  made 
no  movement  to  touch  her  or  to  comfort  her.  It  was 
as  though  they  looked  at  each  other  across  a  great 
space. 

Twice  Sombra  tried  to  speak.  Then  she  said 
faintly,  "I  Ve  seen — I  Ve  seen — " 

"You  've  seen  Alan?"  said  the  boy,  sadly. 

"Yes." 

"Bassett  let  the  team  through  the  ice.  Old 
Bully 's  drowned.  Alan  and  old  Lanssen  saved  Bas- 
sett and  Bud.  Alan  had  to  bring  them  home." 

"I  saw— him." 

Again  Sal  lifted  his  hands  helplessly.  "We 
thought  you  was  down  at  the  chicken  house,  Sombra. 
We — did  n't  want  you  to  know — not  yet — " 

"I  saw — his  head — at  Bassett's  window — as  I  was 
comin'  up  through  the  orchard.  Sal — Sal — " 

"Well,  Sombra?"  asked  the  boy  in  the  same  sad 
way. 


THE  SNOW  235 

"What 's  he  doin'  round  here?  Him  and  old 
Lanssen — ?" 

"He  's  been  livin'  at  the  Ferry  House,  Sombra, 
some  while.  Sombra,  he  's  let  everything  go,  given 
up  everything,  just  to  stop  on  there  and  be  near  you 
when — when  you  turned  to  him  again." 

She  bent  her  head.  The  snow  whitened,  whit- 
ened on  her  black  braids.  She  stood  so  still  that 
Sal  was  afraid.  He  said  timidly:  "Sombra!  Sis- 
ter—" 

"As  if  I  'd  ever  turned  from  him! — my  dear  love!" 

Her  voice  was  faint,  yet  had  a  thrilling  quality  of 
music  in  it.  It  was  the  music  that  used  to  sound  for 
Alan  in  the  old  summer  days  at  Morning  House. 
Sal  said,  very  low:  "Oh,  Sombra! — poor  Alan!" 

"And  he 's  been  near  me  all  this  while?" 

"Yes,  Sombra." 

"Watchin'  over  me  when  I  thought  he  was  far 
away?" 

"Yes,  Sombra." 

"And  that  time,  when  they  told  me  I  'd  took  sick 
a  little  in  the  woods — that  time — it  was  n't  a  dream?" 

"It  was  no  dream,  dear." 

"He  was  there?  He  come  to  me?  He  held  me  in 
his  arms?" 

"He  held  you  in  his  arms,  Sombra."  The  boy's 
face  was  white  as  her  own.  "He  talked  to  you  and 


236  THE  BRIDGE 

made  you  better.  And  when  the  time  come — oh, 
Sombra,  he  loves  you  so  true! — he  went  away  and 
left  you.  Poor  Alan!" 

"Not  so  poor  as  if  he  had  me  with  him,  and  me 
not  fit,  not  fit.  But  he  don't  know  it  yet,  my  dear 
love—" 

Salvator  shrank  and  was  silent. 

"And  I  'm  afraid — I  'm  afraid — he  loves  me  so 
he  '11  never  let  me  go!" 

She  lifted  her  head.  The  boy  said  shakenly: 
"Why,  sister,  why — what 's  come  to  you?  You  look 
happy!" 

For  Sombra's  beauty  had  come  back, — strange, 
still,  radiant;  a  winter  of  beauty  after  her  summer 
season.  There  was  something  unearthly  in  her  as 
she  looked  at  her  brother  with  the  snow  on  her  head 
and  those  spiritual  fires  in  her  eyes.  She  said — and 
no  tenderer  whisper  had  ever  passed  her  lips  in  the 
days  of  happy  love  at  Tallis  Island — "Ain't  that 
a  fine  thing  for  any  woman  to  know?  He  spoke  true. 
He  '11  never  let  me  go.  He  '11  never  set  himself  free 
of  me — and  mine." 

Presently  the  fire  died  out  of  her.  She  bent  her 
head  again,  shivering.  She  whispered:  "I  must  go 
away  from  here.  I  must  leave  him  if  he  won't  leave 
me." 

Some  remembered  ecstasy  held  her,  she  spoke  as 
though  she  were  in  a  dream.  Salvator  did  not  know 


THE  SNOW  237 

what  to  do.  If  he  took  her  into  the  house  she  might 
meet  Maclear  face  to  face;  and  he  was  afraid  for 
her  overwrought,  exalted  mind.  He  led  her  into 
the  barn,  folded  a  horse  blanket  round  her  shoulders, 
made  her  sit  down  in  the  soft  straw.  She  murmured 
to  herself;  he  caught  a  few  words.  He  remembered 
afterward  that  she  had  said  something  about  the 
railway  and  the  trains.  When  she  was  quiet,  smil- 
ing secretly  to  herself,  he  left  her,  though  with  an 
alarmed  heart.  He  ran  back  to  the  house  to  tell 
Maclear. 

But  Maclear  was  already  gone.  He  would  not 
wait,  Mrs.  Mackerrow  said,  for  fear  that  very  thing 
would  happen  that  had  happened.  He  said  he 
thought  there  was  a  way  to  cross  the  river  on  the  ice 
above  where  the  bridge  had  been,  and  that  he  would 
get  back  to  the  Ferry  House  before  the  snow  was 
heavier. 

Salvator  listened  in  silence.  When  Mrs.  Mac- 
kerrow had  done,  he  looked  round  the  trim,  warm 
kitchen.  A  curious  sense  came  to  him  that  he  would 
never  see  the  kindly  place  again  just  so,  just  as  it 
was.  He  asked  curtly,  "Where  's  the  boss?" 

"Gone  to  Westerley's  about  that  buck-saw  young 
Bert  borrowed.  If  the  weather  keeps  on,  he  '11  likely 
klop  all  night." 

Again  Salvator  listened  in  silence.  He  felt  that 
in  some  way  the  very  forces  of  nature,  the  common 


238  THE  BRIDGE 

course  of  daily  existence,  were  concerned  in  and 
aware  of  this  business  of  theirs.  Bassett  helpless, 
Maclear  gone, — whatever  was  coming,  whatever  hour 
the  great  clock  of  life  had  struck,  he  was  to  be  left 
alone.  He  had  been  alone  all  his  life  with  shadowy 
and  immutable  dreads.  Mrs.  Mackerrow  asked, 
"Where  's  Sombra?" 

"Down  at  the  barn.     I  '11  go  fetch  her  in." 

He  went  down  to  the  barn.  Half-way  across  the 
yard,  he  was  running,  an  arm  over  his  eyes  to  shield 
them  from  the  snow. 

"Sombra." 

He  plunged  in  at  the  door,  and  the  great  sweet- 
scented  stillness  enclosed  him.  Bud  stamped  in  the 
loose-box  they  kept  for  sick  beasts.  A  mouse  rus- 
tled in  the  stored  fragrance  of  the  hay.  That  was  all. 

Sombra  was  gone. 

Sal  looked  round,  calling  her,  though  he  knew  it 
was  in  vain.  She  had  taken  the  old  oilskin  coat 
Mackerrow  kept  hanging  on  a  peg.  He  seemed  to 
hear  her  voice:  "I  must  go  away  from  here.  I 
must  leave  him  if  he  won't  leave  me." 

Where  had  she  gone? 

Sal  ran  out  of  the  barn.  She  could  not  have  been 
gone  many  minutes,  yet  already  she  was  lost  to  sight 
in  the  snow,  hidden  from  him  by  innumerable  fall- 
ing crystals,  fine  as  ashes,  as  though  by  a  wall.  Her 
footprints  were  there,  her  one  link  with  what  she 


THE  SNOW  239 

was  leaving.  But  even  as  Sal  stared  at  them,  they 
were  melting  under  his  eyes,  blurring  into  invisibil- 
ity. 

He  hesitated  a  minute,  wondering  if  he  had  time 
to  go  back  to  the  house  and  tell  Mrs.  Mackerrow. 
He  had  not. 

He  ran  after  Sombra. 


VI 


Again  and  again  Sombra  whispered  to  herself,  "I 
must  leave  him,  who  won't  leave  me." 

She  was  walking  through  the  woods,  following  a 
short  cut  to  the  railway  that  Mackerrow  had  shown 
her.  Arrived  at  the  railway,  she  meant  to  follow 
the  line  down  until  she  came  to  the  station,  and  there 
wait  until  there  was  a  train, — in  any  direction,  as 
her  one  necessity  was  to  set  distance  between  herself 
and  the  man  she  loved. 

She  had  calculated  neither  time  nor  the  miles. 
She  had  measured  nothing  justly.  When  she  saw 
Maclear  at  the  farm,  and  knew  how  near  he  had  been 
to  her,  and  again  fled  from  him,  she  touched  an  in- 
tensity of  renunciation  that  left  her,  perhaps,  not 
entirely  sane  as  we  count  sanity.  Perhaps  that  cease- 
less dwelling  through  weeks  on  one  despairing 
thought  had  a  little  shaken  her  pure  and  simple  mind. 

At  .first,   huddled   in  the  farmer's  old  tarpaulin 


240  THE  BRIDGE 

coat,  she  had  not  heeded  the  snow,  or  had  heeded  it 
only  as  an  additional  security.  The  skies  seemed 
to  be  showering  themselves  upon  her;  and  in  a  little 
while  everything  lost  its  shape,  became  blurred  and 
featureless  in  the  drift  of  white,  as  though,  under  this 
very  dust  of  forgetfulness,  trees  and  fences  lost  mem- 
ory of  their  own  likeness.  One  would  have  thought 
this  continuous  rain  of  smallest  crystals  could  have 
come  from  nothing  less  than  the  falling-away  of  a 
universe,  thus  dissolving  through  space,  grown  old 
and  cold. 

She  whispered,  as  though  to  an  unseen  companion : 
"We  '11  go  away  from  him,  lovey.  We  '11  set  him 
free  that  way.  Even  if  it 's  against  his  will,  it 's 
best  so.  Then  he  '11  never  need  to  be  ashamed  of  us, 
never  need  to  be  afraid  for  us." 

So,  for  his  sake,  she  went  on  into  a  world  that  with- 
out him  was  indeed  a  ruin,  grown  cold  and  old. 

She  walked  very  quickly  in  spite  of  the  snow, 
which  soon  lay  deep  enough  to  clog  her  feet.  She 
passed  from  the  more  open  hardwood  trees  to  a  track 
that  wound  between  spruce  and  balsam  that  even  in 
the  snow  made  a  night  of  their  own.  They  grew  so 
close  together  that  wind  hardly  swayed  their  sweep- 
ing branches  of  everlasting  green.  Each  cluster  of 
needles  on  the  boughs  was  massed  with  snow;  it 
lodged  like  dust  in  the  interstices  of  the  cones. 


THE  SNOW  241 

The  substance  of  the  trees  seemed  to  be  turning  into 
snow. 

To  her  brother,  following  her  with  his  every  sense 
intensely  applied  to  that  one  action,  she  seemed  to 
have  melted  away  and  vanished  in  snow. 

Footprint  after  footprint  of  her  track  he  gained 
and  passed.  They  were  clear  enough  at  first.  But 
soon  he  knew  that  behind  them  their  tracks  were  be- 
ing obliterated  in  a  few  moments,  as  though  they  had 
been  left  in  some  fluid;  that  not  a  trace  remained  in 
the  yard,  by  the  farm,  or  on  the  concession  road  they 
had  crossed.  No  one  would  know  where  to  look  for 
them,  nor  what  had  happened  to  them  if  they  did  not 
return.  The  iron  earth  and  the  snow  would  have  no 
speech  to  say,  Here  they  went,  and  here  passed  Love. 

He  set  his  lips,  glanced  at  the  weather,  and  pressed 
on. 

Here  and  there  among  the  spruce  a  current  of  air 
carved  the  snow  into  small  hollows  that  almost  looked 
like  footprints.  Sometimes  these  lay  beside  Som- 
bra's  track,  as  though  another  and  vaguer  shape  had 
joined  her  in  the  woods  and  walked  with  her.  Some- 
times Sal  must  pause,  looking  for  the  real  prints; 
must  stand  a  moment,  watching  all  marks  blur, 
soften,  and  fill,  before  he  could  go  on.  At  these  mo- 
ents  he  felt  Time  drifting  past  him  with  the  snow. 

The  snow,  blotting  out  distance,  altering  the  real 


242  THE  BRIDGE 

features  of  things,  distorting  all  into  its  own  likeness, 
had  this  effect  upon  the  mind:  it  became  necessary  to 
hold  strongly  to  some  purpose,  to  be  supported  by 
some  deliberate  putting  forth  of  will;  as  the  body 
was  supported  by  the.  earth  under  the  disguising  deep- 
ening drifts. 

Sombra  was  supported  by  her  will  to  free  Maclear 
of  that  wrong  she  thought  she  had  done  him;  Salva- 
tor  by  his  resolution  to  save  her,  and  himself. 

For  those  weeks  of  intense  mental  suffering  under 
a  memory  of  which  he  spared  himself  nothing,  ex- 
cused himself  in  nothing,  had,  by  the  hidden  proc- 
esses of  the  spirit  beside  which  the  processes  of  the 
life  in  the  womb  and  the  grain  in  the  ground  are  plain 
and  easily  to  be  understood,  made  of  the  dark  and 
secret  boy  a  man.  He  came  suddenly  into  his  inheri- 
tance of  mastery.  Not  the  storm,  not  any  effort  of 
nature  could  stay  him;  not  Sombra's  entreaties  could 
turn  him  any  more.  Behind  that  unholy  shadow  of 
inherited  hatred  which  had  darkened  his  youth, 
which  had  come  to  its  fulfilment  on  the  deck  of  the 
stranded  schooner,  which  since  then  had  darkened 
his  whole  present  and  future,  and  the  lives  of  those 
most  dear  to  him,  he  had  seen  a  light. 

"A  life  for  a  life."  Those  words,  which  the  stern 
creed  of  his  upbringing  read  in  wrath,  might  they 
not  be  read  in  mercy?  To  those  two  he  loved,  life 
was  death  without  each  other.  If  he  could  by  any 


THE  SNOW  243 

means  restore  their  life  to  them,  their  life  in  each 
other,  could  he  not  take  that  as  a  sign, — a  sign  of 
his  own  reconciliation  with  life,  with  destiny? 

He  pressed  on,  driven  by  that  thought;  would  have 
pressed  on  if  the  grains  of  snow  had  been  of  fire,  and 
the  sword  of  the  frost  a  sword  of  steel.  If  he  had 
fallen  and  died,  it  seemed  that  his  spirit  must  have 
gone  on,  and  manifested  his  will  through  the  very 
stuff  of  the  world. 

Sombra's  track  still  led  him  through  the  ever- 
greens. Under  their  immense  drooping  fans  they 
had  drawn  and  concealed  all  the  winged  things  re- 
maining in  the  woods,  as  completely  as  seeds  were 
hidden  in  the  ground.  This  ground  descended,  and 
in  time  the  spruce  and  balsam  were  mingled  with 
alder  and  tamarack;  and  her  footprints  led  him 
across  a  stream,  stilled  and  dumb  under  silver  ice 
and  snow.  It  was  the  same  stream  that  ran  by  the 
hut  where  she  so  often  went;  where  Maclear  had  held 
her,  talked  with  her,  left  her. 

It  was  as  though  some  recollection  of  this  dragged 
her  back.  For  now,  and  for  the  first  time,  Salvator 
was  sure  he  was  gaining  on  her. 

She  was  not  far  ahead.  The  snow  had  confused 
her;  she  had  lost  the  trail  to  the  railway.  She  was 
not  aware  of  it.  The  insistent  soft  whisper  of  the 
snow  had  released  another  whisper  in  her  mind. 
What  if  there  were  another  way  to  set  Maclear 


244  THE  BRIDGE 

free? — a  surer,  better  way  than  all?  What  if  she 
just  lay  down,  and  covered  her  face,  and  felt  noth- 
ing any  more  but  the  sure  descent  of  the  snow,  the 
sure  descent  of  sleep?  "We  'd  be  safe  then,  lovey," 
murmured  Sombra,  her  large  eyes  melancholy  and 
lost.  "No  one  to  be  troubled  by  us,  no  one  to  be 
ashamed  for  us.  We  must  come  of  a  wild  dark  stock 
for  such  a  thing  to  have  happened.  Not  fit  for  him, 
lovey,  and  him  so  clean  and  high  and  proud.  Will 
you  forgive  me?  I  was  always  far  beneath  your 
daddy,  dearie.  Maybe  it  would  be  best  this  way. 
We  'd  rest  then.  And  we  're  tired, — tired  of  keepin' 
on,  without  him." 

She  pressed  on,  now  through  a  growth  of  delicate 
young  birch,  almost  invisible  in  the  snow.  In  some 
places  their  stems  were  close-set  as  grass,  complain- 
ing all  together  with  a  little  ceaseless  sound.  The 
weight  of  the  snow  was  on  her  feet.  The  weight  of 
it  seemed  on  her  heart.  She  was  tired,  tired.  She 
remembered  how  he  had  spoken  to  her,  going  back  to 
the  island.  "Rest  in  it,  my  dear,"  he  had  said.  And 
that  which  she  was  to  rest  in  was  his  love,  her  true 
home,  only  home  of  all  loving  hearts  in  all  the  world. 
She  had  no  other.  And  that  she  must  leave  for  his 
sake.  There  was  nothing  else  to  rest  in  but  the 
snow. 

As  if  the  snow  fell  on  her  very  thoughts  and  had 
power  to  change  and  hide  them,  as  it  hid  her  foot- 


THE  SNOW  245 

prints,  she  forgot  the  purpose  with  which  she  had 
left  the  farm.  She  stood  still.  She  shut  her  eyes, 
and  stretched  out  her  bare  hands  to  the  ceaseless 
noiseless  descent  that  was  as  the  ruin  of  a  universe, 
the  falling-away  of  years,  falling  like  ashes  on  the 
world.  It  was  as  though  she  sought  the  acceptance 
of  this  visible  forgetfulness. 

She  felt  her  outstretched  hands  clasped  strongly  in 
other  hands.  Her  own  were  very  cold.  The  grasp 
hurt  her.  It  was  like  painful  life,  dragging  her  back 
from  that  harbor  of  rest  the  snow  offered. 

She  opened  her  beautiful,  desolate  eyes.  She 
looked  at  her  brother  wildly,  mournfully.  She 
asked:  "Oh,  why  have  you  come?  Why  don't  you  let 
me  go?" 

With  a  calm  look  his  eyes  shone  upon  her.  He 
seemed  exalted  in  conflict  as  another  might  have 
been  in  happiness.  He  said,  "I  Ve  come  now  to 
save  you  and  me." 

"Oh,  leave  me  be!  Leave  me  be,  and  go! 
Brother,  if  I  ever  done  anything  for  you,  if  I  was 
ever  dear  to  you,  leave  me  be  now  to  do  what 's 
best  for  Alan!" 

She  turned  and  stumbled  blindly  form  him.  He 
followed  and  caught  her  in  his  arms.  It  was  as 
though  life  itself  held  her,  to  drag  her  back,  to  force 
her  into  more  wrong.  She  struggled  against  his 
hold.  All  her  quietness  went.  When  he  released 


246  THE  BRIDGE 

her,  she  could  only  slip  down  and  kneel  at  his  feet, 
huddled  in  the  snow,  crying  to  him  she  knew  not 
what, — nor  he, — only  that  he  would  let  her  go,  leave 
her  be,  and  go,  for  she  was  not  fit,  not  fit. 

He  waited,  very  pale  under  her  words.  But  his 
steady  look  did  not  change,  nor  his  calm.  The  frost 
had  touched  her  cheek.  In  one  place  it  was  wax- 
white  and  bloodless.  He  laid  hold  of  her  again; 
held  her,  sobbing  and  crying,  while  he  rubbed  her 
cheeks  with  snow;  when  he  saw  the  blood  returning, 
and  knew,  by  the  greater  concentration  of  her  eyes, 
she  suffered  pain  from  it,  he  lifted  her  to  her  feet. 

"Sombra,"  he  said,  "look  at  me." 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  lost  and  tragic  gaze. 
She  said,  "I  '11  never  forgive  you  if  you  stop  me 
doin'  right  by  Alan." 

Plaintive  and  trivial  phrases  she  must  needs  use 
to  clothe  the  passionate  renunciations,  the  denials  and 
despairs  of  her  soul;  as  each  body  of  this  dust  clothes 
the  flame  of  which  none  can  say  whence  it  cometh  or 
whither  it  goeth. 

"Sombra,  you  're  more  to  me  than  any  one  else 
in  the  world.  But  now  your  forgiveness  or  your  un- 
forgiveness  don't  matter  to  me  more  than  a  flake  of 
snow." 

She  was  held  and  stilled  by  his  solemn  voice  as 
his  hands  could  not  hold  or  still  her.  He  lifted  those 
hands  before  her,  held  the  open  palms  in  front  of  her 


THE  SNOW  247 

eyes.  And  the  storm  of  the  snow  seemed  suddenly 
weak,  faint,  of  little  account  in  the  balance  with  that 
gesture. 

"Sombra,  what  do  you  see  on  them  hands  o' 
mine?" 

"I  see  the  snow." 

"No,"  answered  the  son  of  Juan  Luz;  "it  ain't  snow 
that 's  on  them.  It 's  blood." 

She  shivered,  her  breath  caught  in  her  throat.  His 
hands  fell.  He  stood  before  her;  and  the  curled  and 
crested  drift  crept  round  them  like  a  wave  of  the  sea. 
He  did  not  again  touch  her.  But  she  could  not 
escape  him. 

His  voice  was  a  breath.  But  before  it  her  pas- 
sion shrank  and  dwindled  as  the  storm  and  the  wind 
had  done. 

He  said  again,  "There  's  blood  on  my  hands. 

"You  're  my  dear  sister.     You  're  Sombra. 

"We  know  the  truth,  you  and  me.  Many  might 
find  an  excuse,  a  pardon  for  what  I  done.  But  we 
don't  see  it  that  way.  Many  would  say  I  done  it  in 
self-defense.  It  ain't  true.  I  did  n't  have  to  do  it. 
When  he  come  at  me  on  the  deck  of  the  wreck,  I 
could  have  got  away,  as  I  'd  got  away  many  and  often 
a  time  before.  But  the  hate  rose  up  in  me,  the  dark- 
ness was  on  my  eyes,  and  I  struck,  I  struck. 

"For  what  I  done  to  you  when  I  done  that,  maybe 
you  'd  forgive  me.  But  your  forgiveness  don't  ease 


248  THE  BRIDGE 

me.  No  one  knows  but  us  three.  Suppose  we  died, 
no  one  in  the  world  'd  know  the  truth.  Ain't  that 
so?  Yes,  but  there  's  Something  'd  know.  And  that 
Something  sets  me  away  from  the  world.  No  one 
knows.  But  I  'm  like  Cain,  wanderin',  separate,  till 
I  can  get  linked  up  with  life  again. 

"The  hate  come  on  me,  and  I  was  afraid,  and  I 
struck.  It-'s  all  in  that.  The  hate  was  n't  rightly 
my  hate;  the  love  that  started  it  was  n't  my  love.  It 
began  before  we  was  born.  It 's  been  overhangin'  us 
all  our  lives,  the  dread  and  the  fear  of  it.  Yet  when 
it  happened,  Sombra,  it  was  n't  that  that  happened. 
Not  just  death!  It  was  that  I  had  an  instant,  a  sec- 
ond, in  which  I  was  free  to  choose.  And  I  chose  hate. 
I  was  afraid,  when  there  was  nothin'  to  fear  but  a 
shadow.  I  give  in  to  a  long-past  evil.  And  by 
givin'  in  I  brought  that  evil  down  to  the  present,  and 
laid  that  shadow  on  ourselves." 

His  solemn  voice  sharpened.  "Oh,  Sombra,"  he 
said,  "to  wake  every  day  to  that  shadow,  not  'way  off 
in  old  years,  but  now!  To  see  you  runnin'  from  Alan 
as  though  you  was  a  leper,  and  know  why!  To  see 
that  blind  face  I  could  have  escaped,  in  every  man's 
face,  and  that  old  grippin'  hand  in  every  man's  hand, 
and  to  know  all  the  while  I  did  n't  need  to  fear  them! 
At  first,  if  I  could  have  run  into  the  middle  of  a  city, 
or  climbed  on  top  of  a  great  high  buildin*  and 
shouted  out,  'I  killed  an  old  man  because  I  was 


THE  SNOW  249 

afraid!  Come  and  punish  me!'  I'd  have  been 
near  happy.  But  there  's  no  punishment  like  a  sin 
you  can't  pay  for.  God  knew  what  He  was  about 
when  He  let  Cain  go  about  free  and  did  n't  let  any 
one  touch  him.  And  his  punishment,  says  the  Book, 
was  greater  'n  he  could  bear." 

He  dashed  wild  drops  from  his  eyes.  "Sombra, 
by  my  own  deed,  and  only  by  that,  I  brought  the 
hate  and  the  trouble  between  our  father  an'  mother 
an'  Mail  down  to  our  own  time.  I  've  set  a  mark 
of  hate  in  the  world  afresh,  like  as  if  it  was  Cain's 
mark.  I  can  never  wipe  it  out  by  confession,  because 
of  you  and  Alan.  0  Christ!  would  there  be  any  pun- 
ishment hard  as  mine  if  it  was  n't  for  the  way  out?" 

He  was  trembling,  but  without  any  effect  of  weak- 
ness. The  snow  went  over  them,  and  behind  the 
snow  was  the  shadowing  of  the  night.  But  time  had 
ceased  for  them. 

Sombra's  cold  lips  just  shaped  the  words,  "What 
way?" 

"By  rebuildin'  as  far  as  I  may  what  I  overturned. 
By  openin'  the  way  for  love,  instead  of  hate.  If — 
if  it  was  given  me  to  do  that,  I  'd  know  I  was  n't  wan- 
derin',  separated,  cast  off  past  the  findin'." 

"Oh,  Sal,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"You  got  to  come  back  to  Alan.  I  know — I  tell 
you,  I  know — if  you  go  to  him,  there  '11  a  way  be 
opened.  You  got  to  see  him  face  to  face." 


250  THE  BRIDGE 

"Never,  never — " 

"Sombra,  while  I  live,  you  shall  never  leave  him 
this  way." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  again.  His  eyes  were  a 
fanatic's  at  that  moment,  his  beautiful  face  pitiless. 
She  struggled  against  him,  but  his  resolution  swept 
her  on  with  him.  She  was  helpless,  she,  his  sacrifice. 
He  led  her  back  through  the  little  birches.  They 
stood  like  rods  of  glass  in  the  coming  twilight.  All 
their  former  tracks  were  utterly  gone;  it  was  as 
though  no  one  had  passed  that  way. 

"Oh,  Alan!"  she  sighed.     "Oh,  Alan!" 

Perhaps  the  thought  was  in  her  mind  that  Alan 
would  have  saved  her  from  this,  would  have  himself 
released  her,  would  have,  out  of  his  love,  himself  set 
her  feet  upon  the  road  that  led  her  away  from  him. 
But  she  could  fight  no  more. 

Her  brother  said,  "I  'm  takin'  you  to  him." 

But  she  knew  he  was  not. 

He  might  set  her  down  in  the  same  room  with 
Maclear.  He  might  give  her  from  his  own  arms  to 
her  husband's.  But  no  physical  nearness  could 
bridge  the  distance  she  had  set  between  them.  It 
was  still  there. 

In  the  early  evening  the  world  was  narrowing  every 
moment.  Solemn  shadows  clustered  on  the  edge  of 
the  bright  thicket  of  birches.  The  wind  was  dying 
away.  It  was  becoming  very  cold  with  the  night. 


THE  SNOW  251 

"Oh,  Alan!"  sighed  Sombra  very  softly,  "Oh, 
Alan!" 

They  traveled  a  mile,  and  Salvator  was  half  car- 
rying her.  The  snow  and  the  cold  had  suddenly  be- 
come a  weight  greater  than  hers.  The  life  of  the 
body  seemed  consciously  to  shrink  and  withdraw,  as 
though  it  were  an  animal  going  into  hiding.  His 
limbs  were  like  stone.  He  moved  them  and  felt  noth- 
ing. He  looked  at  her.  He  thought  the  cold  had 
touched  her  also.  He  looked  at  the  small  ripples,  the 
delicate  patterns  in  the  snow,  and  saw  again  a  trail 
beside  the  one  they  left,  as  though  a  huge  unseen 
companion  traveled  with  them.  He  knew  now  that, 
before  they  regained  the  farm,  they  would  walk 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  Death. 

The  passionate  will  flamed  in  him  more  fiercely. 
It  might  be  given  him  to  save  not  only  her  love,  but 
her  life,  for  Alan. 

They  went  on  and  on.  It  became  an  unspeakable 
effort  of  endurance  just  to  go  on,  bearing  her  with 
him.  She  was  quite  passive  in  his  hands,  quite  help- 
less; this,  in  one  of  her  strength  and  vigor,  seemed  of 
itself  unnatural,  dreadful.  He  measured  his  ad- 
vance as  one  measures  the  endless  movement  of  a 
dream;  he  saw  the  stalk  of  a  dead  flower  emerging 
from  the  white,  and  passed  it;  and  there  was  another 
stalk  just  ahead.  A  tree  reared  a  cowled  shadow  in 
the  whirl  of  flakes,  and  he  passed  it  with  enormous 


252  THE  BRIDGE 

effort;  and  there  was  the  same  tree  yet  to  be  passed, 
and  again,  and  again. 

There  came  the  time,  with  night  closing  round 
them,  that  she  slipped  from  him  and  fell,  and  lay  in 
the  snow.  And  his  stiffened  hands  had  hardly  the 
strength  to  raise  her. 

He  crouched  in  the  drift  beside  her,  coaxing  her 
as  you  coax  a  child:  "Come,  Sombra,  just  a  little 
way  more,  just  a  little  way." 

She  whispered,  thinking  of  the  man  to  whom  he 
was  taking  her,  "A  long,  long  way!" 

"Sombra,"  besought  her  brother  hoarsely,  "I  'm 
— I  can't  carry  you  no  more,  Sombra.  And  you  '11 
die  if  you  stop  here." 

She  raised  to  him  eyes  like  the  night  itself.  Her 
voice  was  a  breath.  "Perhaps  that  would  be  best. 
Perhaps  that  is  what  God  means."  All  her  old  com- 
passion and  sisterhood  shone  in  her.  "Go  on,  dear." 
she  said;  "you  can't  fetch  me  back  to  him  this  way. 
Go  on — and  leave  me  be." 

He  rose  to  his  knees  in  the  snow.  He  lifted  his 
hands  to  that  dark  and  solemn  cloud  in  which  the 
trees  of  the  forest  were  lost,  and  even  the  snow  be- 
coming one  darkness.  He  lifted  his  face.  Softly 
the  snow  touched  it.  He  said,  "What  am  I  to  do!" 

With  infinite  softness  her  voice  came  to  him. 
"Oh  Sal,  this  ain't  bringin'  us  nearer  together!" 


THE  SNOW  253 

He  beat  his  hands  wildly  against  his  own  body,  as 
though  he  hated  the  thing  that  had  weakened  against 
his  will.  She  said  gently,  "Go  on,  dear." 

"You  're  crazy,  Sombra.  You  don't  know  what 
you  say." 

"He  '11  forget  me,  this  way.  He  '11  be  free,  this 
way.  This  way — " 

"Ain't  God's  way,  Sombra." 

He  had  seen  something,  a  square  of  more  solid 
dark  in  the  shadows,  a  line  of  more  stable  whiteness 
in  the  whirl  of  the  snow.  He  got  up  and  stumbled 
toward  it. 

It  was  the  shack  in  the  woods  where  Sombra 
used  to  sit  and  wonder  how  she  could  free  Maclear; 
where  she  had  lain  when  Maclear  cared  for  her,  and 
she  had  not  known  it;  where  Sal  himself  had  stood  all 
night  before  the  wooden  cross. 

He  saw  it  now  with  a  remembrance  of  that  time 
that  was  like  a  pang.  The  maple  was  no  more  than 
a  faint  sigh  in  the  night;  but  on  the  trunk  the  cross 
glimmered  where  the  snow  had  lodged  upon  the 
arms.  He  turned  and  went  back  to  Sombra. 

"Come,  Sombra." 

She  shrank  from  him  with  a  small  tired  sound,  as 
though  she  found  the  snow  warm  and  pleasant. 
With  a  set  face,  Salvator  dragged  her  to  her  feet. 
With  his  arms  around  her,  he  took  her  to  the  hut. 


254  THE  BRIDGE 

When  he  heard  the  rustle  of  dried  leaves  about  his 
feet,  he  laid  her  down. 

Her  voice  came  to  him  from  the  utter  darkness,  a 
voice  of  saddest  compassion  and  reproach:  "Oh,  Sal! 
what  you  think  you  're  goin'  to  do?" 

"Sombra,  I  must  go  on  and  get  help.  Sombra,  I 
must  save  you  for  Alan." 

"Not  this  way, — oh,  brother,  not  this  way!" 

"Any  way,  so  I  keep  you  for  him." 

"Against  my  own  will,  Sal?  Would  you  be  that 
cruel?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy,  "I  '11  keep  you  from  death  it- 
self, for  him." 

He  was  beating  his  numbed  hands  together  fiercely 
as  he  spoke.  The  sound  of  those  blows  was  unspeak- 
ably threatening  to  her,  crouched  among  the  leaves. 
Presently  she  heard  him  wrenching  furiously  at  the 
loose  flimsy  cedar  "shakes"  of  which  the  shack  was 
built,  and  then  the  rustling  of  leaves.  There  came 
the  scrape  of  a  match,  struck  with  clumsy  fingers; 
soon  a  little  spurt  of  flame.  And  from  that,  as 
flowers  and  branches  from  a  single  bud,  more  flames, 
and  more.  The  interior  of  the  shack  leapt  at  her 
suddenly  from  the  dark,  and  her  brother's  strange, 
set  face,  all  golden  in  the  light,  and  the  square  of  the 
doorway  a  square  of  night,  across  which  ceaselessly 
drifted  a  dust  of  rose  and  gold. 

He  had  scraped  a  circle  in  the  snow  drifted  in  ac 


THE  SNOW  255 

the  door;  and  within  a  circular  wall  of  snow  he 
had  made  a  fire  of  dried  leaves  and  flakes  of  cedar. 
He  went  away  into  the  dark,. and  returned  with  dead 
branches  of  spruce,  beaded  with  frozen  resin  like 
beads  of  gold,  and  frost  like  beads  of  silver.  He 
fed  the  fire  with  this  weightier  stuff,  and  it  soared 
upward  with  a  living  sound  that  defeated  the  deathly 
whisper  of  the  falling  snow. 

So  intense  was  the  cold  now  that  only  the  inner  sur- 
face of  the  low  snow  rampart  melted;  the  outer  con- 
tinually froze. 

Now  he  went  to  his  sister.  An  intent  so  inexorable 
showed  in  his  face  that  she  said  nothing;  only  she  cov- 
ered her  own  face  with  her  hands. 

He  had  a  long  woolen  scarf  about  his  neck.  This 
he  took  off,  and  with  it  he  tied  her  to  a  post  in  the 
back  wall  of  the  shack;  passing  the  scarf  about  her 
waist  and  knotting  it  on  the  outside  of  the  wall  with 
triple  knots  too  large  to  pass  through  the  warp-holes 
which  had  admitted  the  ends.  Then,  standing  before 
her  in  the  wild  firelight,  he  half  stripped  himself,  and 
wrapped  her  in  his  clothing  above  her  own.  He 
said :  "You  '11  be  safe  here  for  two  hours.  The 
fire  '11  burn  for  two  hours.  I  dare  n't  to  make  a 
bigger  one  or  it'  d  catch  the  shack." 

He  looked  at  her,  measuring  her  strength,  then 
about  her,  measuring  the  defenses  he  had  raised, — 
the  fire,  and  the  snow  wall  to  keep  the  wind  from 


256  THE  BRIDGE 

scattering  it,  and  his  own  coats  wrapped  round  her. 
In  the  same  way,  looking  from  the  door,  he  measured 
his  own  strength  with  what  he  would  have  to  face. 

He  thought  he  would  just  be  able  to  reach  the  farm. 
He  gave  her  one  last  look  as  she  sat  in  the  pulsating 
light,  her  face  covered  from  him.  He  heard  her 
broken  pitiful  words:  "Oh,  Sal,  it  ain't  to  be  done 
this  way,  not  if  you  bring  him  and  set  him  here  beside 
me."  But  they  drained  from  his  will  like  water. 
Then  he  left  her,  trod  the  path  of  light  stretching 
from  the  fire  in  the  doorway,  and  again  plunged  into 
the  woods. 

Before  he  entered  them  he  took  out  his  knife.  He 
knew  he  would  not  be  able  to  guide  any  one  to  the 
shack  who  did  not  know  the  way,  and  he  must  blaze 
the  trail.  The  path  was  long  obliterated  in  snow. 

Holding  the  knife  in  both  hands,  which  bled  where 
he  had  wrenched  the  wood  from  the  shack,  he  cut  a 
flake  from  the  first  large  tree.  The  next  was  a  birch. 
He  bent  a  branch  so  that  it  trailed  in  the  snow.  The 
next  of  any  size  was  a  hemlock.  He  blazed  the 
trunk.  So  with  the  next,  and  the  next,  and  the  next; 
until  he  had  forgotten  that  he  had  ever  done  anything 
else.  He  thought  the  trees  were  of  stone,  not  kindly 
wood,  they  were  so  hard  to  blaze. 

Behind  him,  like  a  rose  opening  in  the  wood,  the 
light  of  the  fire  showed  through  night  and  snow. 
While  it  burned  Sombra  would  be  safe. 


THE  SNOW  257 

He  went  on.  The  roll  of  the  ground  hid  it. 
When  he  could  no  longer  see  it,  the  night  seemed  to 
grow  colder  yet. 

He  lost  all  count  of  time  or  distance.  The  cold 
struck  to  the  very  centers  of  his  life;  and  presently 
he  lost  count  of  suffering.  He  was  but  a  clumsy 
stone,  blundering  through  the  white,  whispering 
night.  But  he  held  to  his  purpose  and  his  direction. 

He  climbed  a  low  ridge.  He  thought  it  was  like 
the  slope  of  a  tremendous  white  wave,  suspended  and 
frozen  in  motion, — such  a  wave  as  ran  before  the 
wild  winds  of  the  lakes.  He  fancied  that  by  and  by 
such  a  wave  might  crash  down  upon  him  in  a  crest 
of  foam,  and  crush  out  the  world.  He  could  not  feel 
the  ground  under  the  snow,  and  no  assurance  of  sta- 
bility came  to  him  from  it.  All  things  had  taken  on 
the  same  solemn  revolving  motion  as  the  snow;  they 
mingled  all  together  and  together  towered  above  him. 

On  the  summit  of  this  hill  was  a  great  tree,  a  pine. 
From  it  trailed  long  strips  of  bark  like  ragged  cloth- 
ing. He  forced  himself  toward  it.  Only  when  he 
raised  his  hands  to  blaze  the  trunk  did  he  know  that 
he  had  been  crawling  up  the  slope,  on  his  hands  and 
knees.  He  attempted  to  lift  himself.  He  managed 
it  at  last,  but  could  not  reach  above  the  snow  crust- 
ing that  mighty  trunk,  to  leave  a  mark  on  it. 

He  tried  and  tried  to  draw  himself  up,  standing 
on  a  heaved-out  root.  But  his  frozen  fingers  fell 


258  THE  BRIDGE 

away  helpless  from  the  tree.  In  a  little  while,  how- 
ever, he  was  satisfied,  and  staggered  on.  He  had  left 
a  dark  sign  on  that  tree  even  if  he  had  not  been  able 
to  cut  the  bark, — a  dark  sign  pointing  the  way  to 
Sombra. 

Here  once  more  was  the  summit  of  a  hill;  and  a 
vast  slope  beneath,  into  which  seemed  to  pour  silently 
snow,  trees,  rocks,  the  deepening  night  itself.  Into 
this  hollow  he  went. 

At  the  bottom  he  came  on  a  fence. 

Because  men's  hands  had  made  it,  suddenly  it 
seemed  a  human  thing.  He  clung  to  it  a  minute  as 
though  it  could  warm  him.  He  could  feel  nothing. 
Nor  could  he  climb  over  it.  But  it  was  a  snake- 
fence.  He  went  to  the  nearest  angle,  set  his  shoulder 
under  the  top  rail  and  heaved  it  down;  so  with  the 
next  and  the  next;  then  he  could  step  across.  He 
did  so,  and  went  on  into  an  open  field. 

That  great  wave  seemed  still  to  heave  high  above 
him  its  swimming  crest  of  foam,  higher  than  any 
earthly  wave  could  have  been.  Now  he  saw,  deep 
in  its  glittering  and  translucent  heart,  a  star. 

Only  his  will  kept  him  on  his  feet,  kept  him  mov- 
ing. He  was  all  but  dead  with  cold  as  he  walked, 
and  the  effort  to  go  on  was  a  torture  that  crucified 
the  lingering  consciousness. 

He  came  to  a  wire  fence.  He  set  his  foot  in  the 
squares  of  the  wire  and  pitched  over.  He  fell  in 


THE  SNOW  259 

the  drift  on  the  far  side,  struggled  clear,  and  went 
on.  Once  more  there  were  trees  about  him.  These 
had  whitewashed  trunks  gleaming  like  ghosts, — 
peach-trees,  propped  all  round  against  their  last 
burden  of  fruit.  His  star  sent  a  reddish  beam  among 
the  last  ones,  in  which  the  flakes  of  snow  glowed  rosy 
as  the  vanished  peach  blossoms. 

Then  the  star  was  a  window  with  a  red  blind.  He 
stood  outside  it. 

The  very  power  of  speech  was  lost  to  him.  He 
could  not  call.  His  lips  seemed  frozen  together 
against  his  voice.  He  staggered  to  the  wall,  lifted 
his  heavy  hand,  and  with  a  last  effort  sent  it  crashing 
through  the  pane. 

All  about  him  the  wave  was  lifting,  lifting  like 
the  foam  of  the  lake,  whiter  than  it,  soaring  a  poised 
breaker  fit  to  blot  the  world:  He  felt  himself  raised 
and  carried  into  the  house.  Voices  were  around  him 
in  a  running  daazle  of  light  like  bubbles  in  foam; 
even,  he  thought,  tears. 

"Where  is  she,  then?  He  'd  never  quit  her. 
This  here  's  brandy.  K'n  you  get  it  down  him?" 

"Wait.  Wait  till  I  lift  his  head.  There.  There, 
now.  What 's  happened?  Oh,  my  God!  look  at  the 
boy's  hands!" 

A  voice,  this  last,  that  even  had  power  to  restrain 
that  falling  wave.  Salvator  struggled  toward  it,  as 
to  a  vessel  in  a  sea.  It  broke,  then  steadied  to  an 


260  THE  BRIDGE 

appeal  that  might  have  reached  Sal  if  he  'd  been 
dead  indeed. 

"Sal,  Sal,  where  is  she?'9 

Twice  and  three  times,  with  a  terrible  effort,  he 
tried  to  speak  where  he  lay  on  the  rag  rug,  his 
head  on  Bassett's  shaking  knees.  Then  the  brandy 
did  its  work.  They,  listening  with  every  appalled 
sense,  as  though  they  had  listened  for  hours,  heard 
the  ghost  of  a  voice.  The  words  were  clear,  quick, 
and  distinct,  though  scarcely  audible. 

"Is  this  Alan?     Holdin'  my  hands?" 

"Yes,  lad,  yes." 

"How'd  you  come  to  be  here?" 

"There  's  been  another  shift  of  ice  in  the  river. 
I  could  n't  get  over.  I  had  to  come  back  here.  I 
found  you  both  gone.  Sal — " 

Sal  raised  himself,  looking  at  Maclear.  It  was 
inexpressibly  sweet  to  him  that  Alan  should  be  there, 
taking  care  of  him,  looking  at  him  with  more  than 
kindness,  as  in  the  old  island  days.  He  tried  to 
smile,  and  some  gleam  of  that  transforming  look 
did  touch  his  face,  changing  it  to  a  deathly  likeness 
of  the  girl's  that  pierced  Maclear's  heart. 

"Where,  Sal,  where?" 

"In  the  little  shack  under  the  maple.  Waitin'  for 
you.  She 's  safe  while,  the  fire  burns.  You  Ve 
maybe  an  hour.  You  know  the  way.  But  even  if 
you  don't  find  it — " 


THE  SNOW  261 

He  lifted  his  rent  hands,  gazing  at  them.  Then 
he  smiled  again,  dimly.  "I  blazed  the  trail  to  her 
the  whole  way,"  he  said. 

"Sal!" 

"And  anyway' — you  could  n't  lose  it.  It 's — God's 
way,  too." 

The  hands  fell.  The  whole  visible  universe  was 
sucked  up  and  up,  like  white  flame  in  a  draft; 
faces,  voices,  lights,  rushed  up  with  the  rest,  soared, 
flickered,  vanished  away. 

There  was  a  thunder  of  waters.  He  tried  to  push 
Alan  back  from  them  into  safety,  but  he  was  too 
weak.  He  fell  into  Bassett's  arms. 

The  great  wave  fell. 


VII 


"If  only  Mackerrow  was  home!" 

"This  is  mine,"  said  Maclear. 

There  was  a  ghost  of  familiarity  about  the  words. 
He  lifted  Sal  and  laid  him  on  the  worn  horsehair 
couch.  ,Mrs.  Mackerrow  and  Bassett  went  to  him. 
Bassett  watched  Maclear  over  his  shoulder.  He 
said :  "Better  let  me  come  along.  I  'd  be  some  use." 

Maclear  just  shook  his  head.  He  could  not  spare 
time  from  what  he  had  to  do  for  any  argument.  He 
filled  a  flask  with  brandy.  He  slipped  on  an  old 
short  mackinaw  coat  of  Mackerrow's  in  preference  to 


262  THE  BRIDGE 

his  own.  He  put  the  flask  in  his  pocket,  together  with 
an  electric  torch  he  always  carried.  There  was  cof- 
fee hot  on  the  back  of  the  stove.  He  filled  a  bottle 
with  it.  The  woman  said,  "There  's  old  flannel  in 
the  drawer  of  the  dresser."  He  wrapped  the  bottle 
in  flannel  and  stowed  that  away.  Then  he  was  ready. 

He  asked  the  two  busy  about  Salvator,  "How  long 
should  it  take  me?" 

"Over  an  hour,  anyway,  to  the  new  embankment. 
Go  easy.  Maybe  you  '11  have  to  carry  her  home." 

He  nodded.  Mrs.  Mackerrow's  face  showed  no 
emotion,  only  the  wrinkles  had  deepened  till  they 
looked  like  scars.  Maclear  said  to  her:  "Don't 
worry.  I  '11  bring  her  back  alive.  Be  ready  for 
us." 

The  weary-faced  woman  looked  at  him  with  her 
strange  passion  of  impersonal  jealousy.  "I  '11  be 
ready,"  she  said.  "And  you — you  be  glad  you  're 
here  to  find  her  and  carry  her  home.  That 's  a 
good  thing  for  a  man  to  be  able  to  do  for  his  woman." 

Maclear  went  out.  When  he  had  shut  the  outer 
door  behind  him,  it  was  as  though  he  had  closed  a 
door  between  life  and  death. 

The  wind  had  almost  ceased.  It  was  apparent 
only  as  a  sound  of  a  distant  tide  in  unseen  trees. 
A  great!  silence  was  covering  the  world!  with  the 
snow. 

Snow  was  falling  steadily,  but  in  larger  flakes. 


THE  SNOW  263 

Maclear  found  it  possible  to  follow  Salvator's  track 
through  the  orchard.  The  snow  was  to  his  knees. 
It  was  so  light  and  dry,  it  seemed  easy  to  walk 
through  as  drifted  leaves  fallen  from  some  crystalline 
tree. 

"Find  her  and  carry  her  home." 

He  vaulted  the  wire  fence.  Crossing  the  open,  he 
was  aware  for  the  first  time  how  cold  it  was.  He 
would  have  to  race  the  cold.  Sal  had  spoken  of  a 
fire.  He  did  not  know  how  long  a  fire  would  burn 
and  warm  her  where  she  waited.  He  wondered  if 
she  waited  in  love.  Yet  he  did  not  think  of  this 
very  much.  He  felt  that  something  more  than  Som- 
bra  waited  for  him. 

As  he  followed  the  boy's  trail  that  would  lead  him 
to  her,  he  had  the  sense  that  he  followed  another 
way, — a  way  that  had  been  laid  down  for  him  to 
tread,  week  by  week,  month  by  month.  He  felt  that 
every  least  incident  of  his  life  was  in  some  manner 
linked  with  what  he  now  did;  that  this  track  he  now 
followed  was  like  the  last  twig  of  a  tree  of  deeds 
whose  roots  reached  back  to  the  past  and  bound  his 
dead  years  with  his  living  present. 

He  was  aware  that  a  time  was  accomplished;  and 
that  in  its  fullness  some  moment  would  presently  be 
released  to  him;  and  that  in  this  implacable  moment 
he  might  gain  or  lose  the  world. 

His  world  was  Sombra.     He  had  learned  it  now, 


264  THE  BRIDGE 

if  ever  he  had  not  known.  But  what  is  a  man  prof- 
ited, once  said  a  Man,  if  he  gain  the  world  and  lose 
his  soul? 

Maclear  went  on  his  way. 

He  came  to  the  snake-fence.  Looking  for  the 
place  where  Sal  had  crossed,  he  switched  on  his 
torch.  It  was  like  an  act  of  creation.  In  the  disk 
of  brilliance  the  frosty  rails  sprang  to  a  dazzling 
clarity,  and  the  snow  was  like  flakes  of  falling  light. 
He  found  the  place  where  the  rails  were  thrown  down. 
Beyond  it,  in  the  shelter  of  the  trees,  he  again  picked 
up  the  trail. 

On  this  ascending  slope  the  snow  was  not  so  thick. 
The  trees  stood  in  a  solemn  order.  Rank  upon  rank 
they  opened  to  him  as  the  beam  of  the  electric  torch 
solidified  them  into  an  instantaneous  glittering  exist- 
ence. As  the  beam  passed  on,  they  seemed  to  close 
in  behind  him,  he  seemed  to  walk  at  the  head  of  a 
vast  soundless  procession  of  shadows  and  of  snow. 

Now  he  began  to  feel  that  the  snow  was  not  light. 
It  was  like  wading  through  a  dust  of  diamonds,  of 
stone. 

He  climbed.  At  last  the  thin  beam  showed  him  a 
great  pine  standing  on  a  ridge.  He  approached  it. 
The  light  gave  him  every  intricacy  of  frost  and  gray 
lichen  and  bark  like  carved  stone,  with  a  dazzling 
purity  and  minuteness.  A  smear  of  frozen  scarlet 
was  netted  under  a  web  of  new  crystals.  He  knew 


THE  SNOW  265 

that  Salvator  had  passed  here,  and  left  a  sign  that 
should  lead  him  to  Sombra,  if  any  sign  were  needed. 

He  turned  the  beam  on  the  next  tree.  It  was  a 
black  birch.  One  branch  was  newly  broken.  Be- 
yond it  a  dim  scar  gleamed  on  a  young  oak. 

Then  Maclear  was  aware  that  he  saw  the  trees 
with  a  new  clearness,  as  though  a  veil  had  passed. 
It  was  like  an  added  stillness  to  what  had  seemed 
utterly  still,  a  new  solemnity  to  what  had  already 
been  hushed  and  remote.  He  looked  up.  The  last 
flakes  of  snow  touched  his  face  and  ceased.  He  saw 
the  passing  of  the  cloud  whence  they  came. 

A  low  bank  of  vapor,  glimmering  like  foam, 
spread  from  east  to  west.  It  was  the  curled  outer 
wave  of  an  ocean  of  traveling  cloud  that  now  passed 
above  him.  And  beyond  it  was  the  black  pit  of  the 
north,  a  void  in  which  the  great  stars  were  hung  with 
their  space  about  them  like  lamps.  Behind  each 
star  the  hollow  stretched  visibly.  Beneath  it  the 
abyss  was  unbridged.  One  after  another  he  saw 
emerge  glittering  from  the  receding  cloud.  Their 
light  was  reflected  from  the  snow  until  he  stood  in  an 
elusive  radiance,  and  the  drifts  glittered  as  though 
fallen  from  the  stars  and  not  from  the  clouds, — ashes 
of  stars. 

Maclear  plunged  down  the  slope.  As  he  stood  on 
the  ridge  facing  that  void  of  stars  its  breath  had 
touched  him  from  the  hollows  of  outer  space  where 


266  THE  BRIDGE 

there  is  no  life.  It  stung  his  cheek  like  searing  iron. 
Colder  than  the  cloud,  more  pitiless  than  the  snow, 
was  the  clear  heaven  and  the  stars. 

But  yet  he  did  not  fear  for  her  or  for  himself. 

He  went  on.  Minute  points  of  frost  pierced  his 
clothing.  The  drifts  were  heavy  on  his  feet  as  lead. 
The  cold  was  so  intense  the  air  was  all  thinned  away. 
He  gasped  for  breath,  and  the  frost  stabbed  him. 
His  heart  beat  heavily.  The  only  sound  in  that  si- 
lence was  the  sound  of  his  own  life,  the  echo  of  his 
own  tread. 

So  desolate  in  its  perfect  beauty  and  strangeness 
was  the  frozen  night  through  which  he  traveled  that 
when  he  came  within  sight  of  the  little  hut,  it  also 
appeared  strange.  No  man-made  thing  seemed  to 
have  place  with  silences  so  august. 

He  advanced  toward  it.  Out  of  the  glimmer  of  the 
ashy  star-shine  it  grew  slowly, — the  white  mass  of  the 
roof,  the  maple  lifting  over  it  a  cloud  of  branches 
delicate  as  thread,  the  cross  outlined  in  snow  upon 
the  tree. 

He  saw  that  a  glow  of  red  passed  over  it  from 
time  to  time,  like  a  last  pulsation  of  life,  from  the 
embers  of  a  fire  that  had  burned  in  the  doorway. 

He  saw  no  other  sign  of  life,  and  heard  no  sound. 

He  stood  by  the  entrance,  very  still.  Then  from 
the  darkness  within  the  shadow  of  a  voice  breathed 
his  name. 


THE  SNOW  267 

He  turned  the  light  of  the  torch  into  the  opening. 

Instantly  she  was  there;  like  a  dream  she  sprang 
out  of  the  night.  The  disk  of  white  light  was  cen^ 
tered  by  her  weary  face.  That  was  his  first  thought, 
— her  weariness.  Pain  and  passion  had  used  her, 
cast  her  aside. 

She  sat  as  Sal  had  left  her,  leaning  against  the 
post  to  which  she  was  bound.  Her  head  rested 
against  the  wall.  Her  bare  hands  seemed  to  say 
that  she,  who  had  given  all,  now  resigned  all.  Her 
eyes  were  closed.  Her  mouth  expressed  patience, 
utmost  humility;  and  as  Maclear  looked,  her  lips 
just  parted  on  a  breath: 

"Alan." 

He  trod  over  the  dying  embers  and  entered  the 
shack.  It  was  as  though  he  would  not  enter  until 
she  had  called  him  in.  He  knelt  at  her  side.  He 
cut  the  scarf  which  held  her  prisoner,  and,  as  once 
before  in  that  place,  he  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"I  am  here,  Sombra,"  he  said. 


VIII 


He  was  in  time.  The  fire  had  burned  long  enough 
to  save  her.  But  through  every  crack  and  cleft  in 
the  shack  the  frost  entered  like  a  steel  blade.  And 
she  had  slept. 

At  first  it  was  difficult  to  rouse  her  from  that  deep 


268  THE  BRIDGE 

dream  of  the  cold,  which  confuses  the  mind  before 
it  harms  the  body,  as  though  it  would  capture  the  cit- 
adel before  the  rampart  yields. 

"Speak  to  me,  dear  love." 

"Dear  love,"  she  echoed  him  out  of  her  passing 
dream. 

"Give  me  your  hands,  your  poor  cold  hands,  Som- 
bra.  Let  me  warm  them  for  you  this  way,  against 
my  heart." 

"My  heart,"  she  said. 

"I  've  found  you,  my  poor  girl." 

"Poor  girl,"  sighed  the  little  wandering  voice. 

"I  've  come  to  carry  you  home." 

"Home?" 

"Yes,  Sombra.     Yes,  Sombra.     Home  to  rest." 

"Rest?" 

"Just  a  minute,  dear.  Wake  up.  In  a  minute 
we  '11  go." 

"Go,"  she  said. 

The  stillness  seized  on  the  little  echoed  word.  It 
seemed  immediately  to  become  a  part  of  the  night 
and  the  icy  stars  so  high  above  them.  In  the  circle 
of  torch-light  her  eyes  opened  and  gazed  at  him, 
sadly,  familiarly.  If  she  had  been  pathetic  in  her 
sleep,  Maclear  thought  he  had  never  seen  anything 
so  sad  as  that  waking  look. 

He  felt  nothing  for  her  at  that  moment  but  a 
strange  and  almost  impersonal  tenderness,  an  over- 


THE  SNOW  269 

powering  pity.  All  the  passion  and  emotion,  the 
denied  love  and  patient  longing  of  the  winter,  passed 
from  him.  All  his  life,  all  his  ways  and  works, 
seemed  to  have  led  him  up  to  this  hour,  to  her.  Yet 
now  he  knew,  with  an  increasing  certainty,  that  it 
was  not  to  her  only;  that  his  love  for  her  was  but  as 
the  body  for  some  approaching  event  that  yet  awaited 
the  soul. 

He  asked  pitifully:  "Are  you  afraid  of  me,  Som- 
bra?  Why  did  you  run  away?" 

"I  was  afraid." 

"Afraid  I  'd  force  myself  on  you? — hold  you 
against  your  will?  How  little  you  know  me,  Som- 
bra!" 

She  began  to  tremble  against  his  arm.  Tears  gath- 
ered on  her  eyelids.  She  drew  herself  a  little  away 
from  him,  and  turned  her  head  so  that  she  no  longer 
looked  at  him.  He  saw  her  lips  move. 

"What  do  you  say,  Sombra?" 

"Go." 

"Is  that  the  only  word  you  have  for  me?" 

"If  you  'd  believe  it,  Alan — if  you  M  but  believe 
it — it 's  the  best  word." 

"To  go  away  and  leave  you  forever?" 

She  bent  her  head. 

"You  're  strong  enough  to  tell  me  to  do  that?" 

Again  that  faint  motion  of  assent.  He  said  sol- 
emnly: "And  you  have  made  me  strong  enough  to  go, 


270  THE  BRIDGE 

You?  I  don't  know.  Something  has.  If  I  could 
believe — if  I  could  believe — I  have  lost  you." 

He  looked  at  her.  She  was  within  arm's  length  of 
him.  Her  beauty,  which  had  first  claimed  him,  was 
there, — the  eyes,  the  lips  so  faithful  in  denying  him, 
the  generous  hands  now  closed  to  him,  the  dark  hair 
with  which  he  had  been  bound.  And  now  he  knew 
that  they  were  nothing,  that  in  a  little  while  he  might 
hold  them  and  these  dear  things  be  no  more  to  him 
than  a  shadow,  a  wraith.  For  that  dearer  she,  the 
hidden  self,  the  real  Sombra, — she  would  not  be  with 
him.  She  was  still  apart  from  him,  gazing  at  him, 
with  sad  eyes  of  farewell,  across  the  separation  she 
had  made  between  them.  And  it  was  that  inner 
Sombra  for  whom  his  spirit  hungered.  Lacking  that, 
or  holding  that  unwilling  and  estranged,  to  hold  her 
beloved  body  would  be  no  more  than  to  possess  him- 
self of  ashes  and  of  dust. 

And  he  knew  that  if  he  could  not  reach  her,  could 
not  bridge  that  gulf  her  wild  humility  had  made,  he 
would  lose  her  more  surely  than  if  she  died  there  in 
the  leaves  before  him. 

In  that  moment  every  force  of  his  body  and  soul 
was  gathered  up,  bent  like  a  bow,  concentrated  on 
the  will  to  reach  her.  He  became  a  being  of  one 
single  purpose.  He  breathed,  his  'blood  coursed, 
his  brain  perceived,  only  for  this  and  to  this  end. 
And  what  he  wanted,  what  he  must  reach,  was  not  the 


THE  SNOW  271 

fair  flesh  he  had  held ;  not  even  the  love  for  him  which 
had  never  wavered,  the  girl's  love  and  the  wife's: 
but  that  deep  inner  unity,  that  acceptance  of  each  by 
the  other,  that  communion  of  knowledge  and  compas- 
sion, which  is  true  marriage,  and  without  which  life 
was  nothing  to  him. 

In  that  moment,  if  her  beauty  had  withered  and 
fallen  from  her,  he  would  hardly  have  known.  He 
looked  at  the  black  square  of  the  doorway,  where 
the  fire  had  dwindled  to  a  single  red  spark,  and  be- 
yond which  hung  those  intolerable  stars;  he  wondered 
for  what  purpose  he  was  here  beneath  them,  for 
what  they  and  the  night  and  the  snow  had  been  set  as 
witnesses. 

He  stood  up.  He  stood  away  from  her.  But  as 
he  stepped  back  he  seemed  also  to  step  forward  as 
a  man  steps  to  the  last  round  of  a  fight,  the  last  test 
of  his  strength.  A  few  feet  between  them;  yet  the 
distance  between  their  spirits  made  that  of  star  from 
star  a  very  little  thing. 

He  must  find  a  way  to  span  that  distance,  or  he 
must  lose  her,  the  divine  part  of  her  in  which  his 
real  need  was  rooted,  forever. 

He  saw  that  space  as  though  with  his  bodily  eyes. 
And  his  soul  cried  out  that  if  there  were  no  way  to 
cross  it,  then  life  was  indeed  a  betrayal,  and  it  would 
have  been  better  for  him  if  he  had  died  among  the 
drifting  sands  of  the  island. 


272  THE  BRIDGE 

Dumb  as  it  was,  the  tremendous  silence  seemed  to 
apprehend  that  cry.  He  called  her  aloud,  "Som- 
bra!" 

She  turned.  There  was  a  sense  of  wrong  in 
the  look  she  raised  to  him,  a  thrill  of  despair  in  her 
voice.  She  said,  "Oh,  why  did  you  come?" 

"You  're  afraid  yet,  Sombra.     You  need  not  be." 

She  hardly  heeded.  "Oh,  if  you  had  n't  come  to 
save  me,  it  would  have  been  done  by  now!  Done 
and  over!  Now  it's  all  to  do  over  again!" 

There  was  a  long  silence  in  the  shack.  Then  Mac- 
lear  asked,  "Was  this  thought  in  your  mind  when  you 
left  the  farm?" 

She  was  weeping  heartbrokenly.  "No,  no!  Then 
I  thought  only  to  get  away  from  you,  to  leave  you 
free.  But  then,  when  I  was  walkin'  to  the  railway, 
it  seemed  as  if  it  would  be  so  easy,  just  to  lay  down 
in  the  snow  and  forget  everything,  and  be  at  peace 
again.  And  better  for  you,  better  for  you!  And 
now  you  've  come,  Sal 's  sent  you  to  tear  my  heart 
again.  Oh  me!  Oh  me!  how  will  I  have  the 
strength  to  do  what  I  must  do?" 

"You  haven't  to  do  it,  Sombra,"  he  said.  "My 
wife,  if  it  must  be  done,  I  '11  do  it  for  you." 

'Again,  rapt  in  her  pitiful  passion,  she  hardly 
heeded.  But  she  looked  up  when  he  said,  "Sombra, 
I  love  you." 

"Alan,  go  an'  leave  me  be." 


THE  SNOW  273 

"You  know  how  I  love  you.  I  know  how  you  love 
me.  You  'd  kill  yourself  to  save  yourself  from  do- 
ing me  what  you  thought  was  a  wrong.  But  here  ?s 
something  you  don't  know:  Once  your  love  was 
greater  than  mine.  You  told  me  so  once.  You 
were  right.  But  it  is  n't  so  any  longer.  It 's  come 
to  be  untrue.  In  all  these  weeks  since  you  left  me 
I  Ve  come  to  love  you  with  a  bigger  kind  of  love 
than  yours  is  for  me." 

He  looked  at  her  solemnly,  tenderly.  "You  'd 
say,  Sombra,  'Is  there  a  greater  love  than  that  which 
would  die  to  save  love  from  a  stain?'  And  I  'd  say 
to  you,  "There  is, — the  love  that  asks  only  to  share 
that  stain,  if  such  it  is'!" 

He  seemed  to  command  her.  He  was  infinitely 
the  master  of  her  whose  faith  and  beauty  had  ruled 
him  so  long.  Yet  he  felt,  outside  himself,  an  ap- 
proaching mastery;  something  that  used  him  as  the 
sand  and  the  mist  and  the  frost  were  used  in  the 
perfecting  of  a  year;  something  made,  shaped,  ap- 
pointed, and  now  summoned  in  the  fullness  of  time. 

His  voice  was  stern  now,  for  there  seemed  no  room 
for  tenderness  any  more.  "I  love  you  so,"  he  said, 
"that  I  must  leave  your  will  free.  Just  because  of 
it.  For  fear,  in  some  unearthly  way,  I  should  kill 
you  if  I  did  n't,  blot  you  out — not  this,  but  the  real 
you,  the  thing  that  must  come  to  me  free  as  a  bird 
or  not  at  all — " 


274  THE  BRIDGE 

His  voice  faltered  an  instant.  He  looked  down  at 
her,  and  a  great  shiver  wrenched  him.  But  in  a  mo- 
ment he  was  calm  again.  She  regarded  him  atten- 
tively. But  the  reproach  of  her  look  was  unchanged, 
and  unchanged  the  distance  across  which  she  looked 
at  him. 

"All  the  time  you  Ve  been  hiding  from  me,  my 
poor  hurt,  unhappy  girl,  I  've  been  near.  I  could 
have  stopped  you  any  day,  any  place.  I  would  n't. 
I  could  have  stopped  you  from  leaving  me,  right  at 
the  beginning.  I  would  n't.  I  won't  bind  you.  If 
I  can't  keep  you  with  my  hands  open,  I  won't  with 
them  shut.  If  you  still  want  to  run  away  from  me 
and  hide,  go  on.  I  won't  stop  you.  I  leave  you 
your  right  to  freedom.  Only — do  you  understand, 
Sombra? — wherever  you  go,  I  reserve  my  right  to 
be  near  you." 

A  single  breath  of  air  moved  in  the  maple  over 
the  shack,  in  a  long  sigh.  A  wave  of  rosy  auroral 
light  ran  among  the  hollows  of  the  stars,  flushed 
the  snows  a  moment,  and  went  out.  Maclear  stood 
very  still.  The  resolution  that  had  sustained  her 
was  now  his.  Everything  had  died  from  him  but 
the  will  to  reach  her.  He  hardly  existed  in  any 
other  sense. 

She  murmured,  "If  you  've  any  pity  for  yourself 
or  me,  Alan,  you  '11  leave  me  an'  go." 

"Sombra,  I  '11  not  lay  a  hand  on  you  without  your 


THE  SNOW  275 

consent.  You  need  not  be  afraid  that  you  will  not 
be  strong  enough  to  turn  me  from  you.  My  poor 
girl,  there  is  nothing  for  you  to  fight." 

Not  in  his  hands,  he  thought;  not  in  his  hands. 
A  sense  was  on  him  that  all  this  had  been  long  ap- 
pointed; that  the  words  they  used,  the  phrases  ex- 
changed between  them,  had  been  rehearsed  by  a  thou- 
sand great  voices,  and  told  where  there  is  neither 
speech  nor  language. 

Her  eyes  besought  him,  her  voice  drifted  to  him 
as  though  across  a  great  void:  "I  ain't  fit  for  you. 
We  wasn't  fit  for  you  before.  0  Christ  of  pity! 
what  are  we  now?" 

She  must  have  repeated  these  words  a  thousand 
times  to  herself. 

"Sombra,  tell  me  why  you  are  not  fit  for  me." 

Her  look  of  reproach  changed  to  one  of  purest 
pain.  She  muttered,  "We're  poor,  ugly,  common 
folk." 

"That  never  separated  us." 

She  struck  her  hands  together.  She  said  in  a  low, 
terrible  voice,  her  great  eyes  staring  upon  him, 
"Think  what  he  done!" 

"Well,  Sombra?"  he  asked  solemnly. 

There  was  something  fanatic  in  her  now,  as  there 
had  been  in  Salvator.  "Love,"  she  said,  with  sudden 
clear  ardor,  and  as  he  knew,  finally,  "I  'm  the  sister 
of  one  that  killed  an  old  man  and  broke  my  heart 


276  THE  BRIDGE 

doin'  it.  He  did  n't  need  to  do  it.  Somethin'  blind 
and  evil  rose  up  in  his  heart  and  he  struck.  And  in 
all  the  world  now,  I  ain't  sure  of  anything  or  safe 
in  anything.  It 's  as  if  that  evil  might  rise  up  any- 
wheres. For  it  was  my  own  brother  that  done  this, 
whose  mind  I  thought  I  knew  better  'n  my  own  mind, 
whose  heart  I  thought  was  clearer  to  me  than  my  own 
heart,  though  sometimes,  in  a  kind  of  dream,  old 
things  made  me  afraid.  And  all  the  while,  what  he 
did  was  hid  in  him,  and  he  did  n't  know  it,  like  a 
flame  in  the  dark,  ready  to  break  out  and  burn.  If 
that  flame  was  hid  in  him,  so  near  to  me,  so  dear  to 
me,  son  of  her  that  bore  me  too,  what  may  be  hid 
here?" 

She  clenched  her  hands  on  her  bosom.  Her  deep, 
sweet  voice  was  like  a  bell,  tolling  for  the  end  of 
hope.  She  said:  "I  don't  know  what's  in  me.  I 
don't  know  what  inheritance  I  have  to  pass  on.  Evil, 
and  a  stain.  I  don't  know  my  own  self  now,  nor 
trust  myself.  I  dread  even  my  own  self,  for  what 
dark  things  may  be  hid  in  me.  And  I  won't  pass 
that  darkness  and  that  dread  to  you, — or  any  more  to 
your  children." 

He  did  not  offer  to  touch  her.  He  asked  quietly, 
"Is  that  your  last  word,  Sombra?" 

"My  last  word,  if  you  've  any  pity  for  us  both." 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her.  As  though  some 
voice  which  had  been  ordained  since  the  beginning 


THE  SNOW  277 

of  the  world  spoke  with  his  mouth,  he  heard  himself 
ask,  "Is  there  nothing  that  will  change  you?" 

"Nothing.     Because  I  love  you." 

At  another  time  what  she  said  would  have  moved 
him  beyond  expression.  But  not  now. 

Another  fan  of  rosy  light  like  a  dawn  spread 
among  the  stars  and  went  out.  Another  solitary 
breath  like  the  wind  of  the  spirit  moved  the  unseen 
branches  and  went  out.  Another  moment,  for  loss  or 
for  salvation,  was  given  to  the  sons  of  men,  and 
went  out. 

He  heard  himself,  very  far  off,  asking,  "Will  noth- 
ing in  life  bridge  that  space  between  us?" 

"No." 

"Yes,"  said  Maclear,  in  a  strange  voice.  "One 
thing  will." 

All  his  senses  were  suddenly  merged  into  one  burn- 
ing comprehension  of  soul  and  flesh.  He  was  all  at 
once  crushed,  deafened,  blinded  by  something  which 
partook  of  great  space,  great  sound,  great  light.  It 
was  like  the  instantaneous  opening  of  a  door;  but 
it  was  more  than  this.  It  was  like  the  rush  of  vast 
wings;  but  it  was  more  than  this.  It  was  like  the 
overwhelming  return  of  vision  to  one  blind;  but  it 
was  more  than  this.  No  words  could  measure  or 
express  the  depth  and  height  of  that  revelation. 

It  was  intolerable  pain.  Yet  with  it  came  a  con- 
sciousness of  freedom,  of  release  that  not  even  love 


278  THE  BRIDGE 

at  its  highest  had  brought  him.  He  possessed  him- 
self again.  He  was  released  even  of  his  need  for 
Sombra. 

The  moment  had  come. 

In  it  the  suspended  worlds,  the  night,  the  snow, 
rode  upon  his  eyes,  sparkled  into  motes,  vanished. 
Sombra  vanished.  He  was  alone  with  that  which  had 
been  coming  to  meet  him  ever  since  he  started  to  es- 
cape from  it, — with  that  necessity  which  had  been 
as  faithful  to  him  as  he  to  Sombra,  and  perhaps  for 
the  same  end. 

He  knew. 

Across  the  gulf  sprang  the  bridge,  a  single  strand 
as  of  fire  by  which  he  might  come  to  her. 

And  now  he  seemed  to  run  to  meet  that  scorching 
self-knowledge  as  for  long  months  he  had  fled  from 
it.  As  though  for  the  first  time  he  drew  to  himself 
his  unacknowledged  companion.  As  though  for  the 
first  time  he  stood  erect,  and  said,  "Before  God  and 
man,  this  is  mine." 

From  that  cup  which  his  own  hand  had  filled,  for 
the  first  time  he  drank.  He  spoke,  and  the  words  as 
he  said  them  seemed  worn  with  use  as  coins  are 
worn,  though  they  were  so  new  they  appalled  him. 

"Sombra,  from  that  poor  boy's  moment  of  fear  and 
madness,  a  deed  instantly  repented  and  terribly  suf- 
fered for,  you  build  a  monstrous  shadow  of  guilt 
and  remorse  to  blot  the  light  from  our  lives.  And 


THE  SNOW  279 

you  say  that  this  shadow  makes  you  unfit  to  be  my 
wife. 

"I  could  argue  against  this  dreadful  delusion  of 
yours,  but  I  know  it  would  be  no  good.  The  horror 
of  it  has  bitten  too  deep  for  words  to  heal,  or  for 
reason  to  reach.  But,  Sombra — 

"Do  you  remember  the  first  night  I  came  to  you? 

"I  was  in  great  trouble.  You  held  me  from  it. 
Later,  at  my  asking,  you  covered  it  up  from  me,  as 
this  snow  covers  the  true  shapes  of  things,  with  your 
compassion. 

"You  would  have  heard  of  it,  in  time.  But  by 
that  time,  under  your  mercy  deep  as  the  mercy  of  the 
snow,  its  true  shape  would  have  been  lost.  My  part 
in  it  you  would  have  taken  from  me  as  I  chose  to 
give  it  to  you.  And  you  would  have  believed  in 
me." 

Her  eyes  were  watching  him  now  as  if  he  were  the 
only  thing  in  the  world.  He  looked  at  her  sadly. 
"Oh,  my  poor  love,"  he  said,  "do  you  know  what 
kind  of  sinful  man  it  is  to  whom  you  Ve  given  a 
greater  love  than  you  have  for  your  brother? 

"Sombra,  if  there  's  any  stain  on  poor  Sal,  God 
knows  it 's  on  me  too,  and  heavily,  heavily! 

"If  there  's  a  shadow  that  must  rest  on  him  and  on 
you  through  him — and  God  knows  I  see  none — for 
what  he  did  in  a  moment  of  inherited  fear  and  dread, 
it 's  on  me  too,  and  without  his  excuse. 


280  THE  BRIDGE 

"Sombra,  what  long  brooding  on  old  terrors  and 
tragedies  drove  him  to  do  at  last,  I  did  through  the 
wish  to  save  money. 

"He  struck  in  a  flash.  I  measured  and  cheated 
and  calculated.  And  four  lives  paid  for  what  I 
did. 

"And  one  of  those  men  I  killed — by  one  dishonesty 
common  as  the  dirt  it  is,  and  surely  as  if  I  'd  blown 
his  brains  out  with  a  gun — was  Gordon,  my  brother." 


IX 


The  last  spark  of  the  fire  died  out.  Only  the 
stars  remained.  Maclear  waited. 

But  while  he  waited,  a  peace  like  that  of  the  snow, 
a  surrender  like  that  of  the  earth  under  the  fulfilling 
frost,  possessed  him.  At  the  moment  when  he  had 
bound  himself  to  his  own  sin,  he  knew  freedom.  At 
the  moment  when  he  accepted  his  own  responsibility 
he  knew  release. 

And  that  release  and  freedom  were  not  dependent 
upon  happiness,  nor  even  upon  love;  nor  on  life,  nor 
on  death. 

With  the  last  words  he  spoke,  time  ceased. 

At  last  he  heard  a  voice,  almost  indistinguishable 
from  the  sigh  of  the  occasional  wind.  "My  God! 
What  is  it  you  're  tellin'  me!" 

"The  truth,  at  last." 


THE  SNOW  281 


"You—?" 
"Yes,  Sombra." 


"You  done  that?" 

"I,  Sombra.  Sal  killed  Mail  Ransome  in  an  in- 
stant of  irresponsible  terror.  He  did  n't  really  mean 
to.  I  killed  my  brother  to  save  a  few  thousand  dol- 
lars. I  did  n't  mean  to,  either.  But  I  did  it." 

For  the  first  time  he  looked  from  the  starg  lo  her 
eyes.  "You,  my  poor  girl — ?"  he  said  very  gently. 
"You  not  fit  to  be  my  wife?  It's  I  that  have  never 
been  fit  to  be  your  husband.  But,  Sombra,  not  be- 
cause the  lives  of  four  men  are  on  my  hands;  be- 
cause I  said  my  hands  were  clean.  Not  because  that 
crime's  laid  on  my  shoulders,  but  because  I  was  a 
coward  and  refused  to  bear  it.  Not  because  that 
account's  rendered  to  me,  but  because  I  ran  from  the 
debt." 

He  was  still  again,  standing  in  the  doorway,  turned 
from  her  toward  the  night.  With  a  faint  low  sound, 
she  stared  at  him,  and  stared. 

After  a  little  she  breathed;  "All  the  while, — ever 
since  you  come  to  me,  that  night  in  the  blowin'  sand, 
and  said,  'Hold  me,'  and  I  held  you  in  my  arms 
because  I  knew  you  was  in  trouble, — all  that  while, 
this  has  been  in  your  mind?" 

"All  that  while  Sombra." 

"When  we  first  loved  each  other,  when  it  was 
summer  on  the  island,  when  we  went  about  knowin' 


282  THE  BRIDGE 

the  thing  that  was  comin'  to  us,  when  you  told  me 
your  love,  this  was  true?" 

"True  all  the  time,  Sombra.     The  only  truth." 

"All  the  while  we  was  plannin'  for  life  together 
and  buildin'  the  house  in  the  sand?" 

"All  the  while." 

"Then — then — we  was  just  buildin'  life  and  love 
itself  on  runnin'  sand  in  a  blind  mist — " 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  you! — you  that  I  Ve  give  all  to, — why 
didn't  you  give  me  the  truth?  Is  that  the  thing 
men  '11  never  give  a  woman?  I  asked  you,  sittin' 
that  day  under  the  gold  poplars.  Why  would  n't  you 
tell  me  then?" 

"I  was  afraid." 

"Of  losin'  me?" 

"Yes." 

After  a  long  silence,  she  said  faintly,  "Ain't  you 
afraid  of  that  now?" 

"Yes,  Sombra." 

She  spoke  again:  "You! — that  I  was  willin'  to 
live  and  die  for,  that  I  held  so  high  above  me, — you 
whose  hand  I  felt  hardly  fit  to  hold,  and  wondered 
how  you  could  look  at  me,  as  if  you  was  a  king  in 
them  old  countries — ?" 

"My  poor  girl!  my  poor  child!" 

"All  the  while,  that  other  was  you?" 


THE  SNOW  283 

"That  was  I.  A  weak,  sinful  man.  Too  weak  to 
be  willing  to  suffer  for  what  he  'd  done." 

"And  that  poor  lady  that  day  on  the  beach, — she 
knew?" 

"She  knew.     She  came  to  forgive  me." 


"I  didn't  want  forgiveness  then.  Some  day,  per- 
haps, I  '11  dare  to  ask  for  it  again, — on  my  knees." 

"That  man,  your  friend,  that  come  to  see  you  and 
that  you  did  n't  bring  to  the  house — ?" 

"Raynham?  Yes.  He  knew.  He  was  going  to 
quit  the  firm  because  he  could  n't  bear,  he  said,  to 
see  me  like  that.  I  did  n't  know  what  he  meant  then. 
I  do  now." 

"I  thought — you  did  n't  ask  him  up  to  the  house 
because  you  might  be  ashamed  o'  me.  Did  he 
quit  you?" 

"For  a  while.  When  I  lost  you  he  came  back. 
He 's  been  keeping  the  business  together  all  the 
winter." 

"Then  you  ain't  been  all  alone  with  your  trouble? 
You  had  one  friend  who  knew?" 

"Yes.     And  that  was  more  than  I  deserved." 

There  was  another  long  stillness. 

Then  he  heard  a  small,  low  sound. 

And  its  meaning  for  him  was  such  that  for  a 
minute  he  must  hold  to  the  lintel  of  the  door.  It  was 


284  THE  BRIDGE 

a  sound  full  of  life  and  promise  as  the  running  of 
the  first  thread  of  freed  water  in  the  spring.  It  was 
the  sound  of  Sombra's  tears. 

She  was  weeping  wildly.  Not  as  she  had  wept 
before,  in  the  desolation  of  her  heart.  But  passion- 
ately, warmly,  as  a  woman  weeps  for  a  hurt  to  one 
dearer  than  herself. 

It  was  like  a  resurrection;  like  the  first  break  of 
the  green  life  through  the  snows.  He  could  not  have 
stirred.  A  great  weakness  smote  him  and  kept  him 
motionless.  But  she  was  coming  to  him. 

Through  the  snow  and  the  ashes  and  the  dead 
leaves  she  came,  crying  aloud.  She  clung  to  his 
shaking  hands.  She  sank  to  her  knees  and  drew  him 
down  to  her.  He  heard  words  at  last  through  her 
wild  crying: 

"All  that  long  while,  and  me  not  to  know!  I  don't 
understand.  I  can't  get  it  anyways  straight.  I  can't 
bother  with  rights  and  wrongs.  You  say  you  done 
that  bad  thing.  Oh,  dear  Alan,  it  don't  matter! 
Nothin'  you  could  do  would  matter  to  me,  so  long 's 
I  could  do  you  good.  Dear,  givin'  's  all.  Rights 
and  wrongs  don't  matter.  It 's  you  that 's  done  it. 
And  above  everything  you  could  do,  I  love  you. 
But  oh,  my  pore  boy,  my  dear  love! — to  bear  it  all 
alone  this  great  while!  When  I  could  have  borne  it 
along  with  you!" 

She  was  there,  beside  him,  living  and  loving;  near 


THE  SNOW  285 

as  hands  and  feet;  his  own  again.  She  forgot  every- 
thing but  his  need.  And  divinely  from  her  great 
ignorant  heart  she  gavejto  him.  That  door  was  once 
more  opened  wide,  in  that  deep  fellowship  and 
compassion  without  which  love  can  leave  no  more 
than  ashes  in  the  snow.  He  yielded  to  her,  dropped 
to  his  knees  beside  her  and  hid  his  face. 

All  roads  were  ended  here.  They  were  at  home. 
For  a  little  they  remembered  nothing  of  sin  or  grief, 
only  knowing  that  they  were  once  more  together. 

After  the  sound  of  the  trumpet  must  come  a  still- 
ness. The  stars,  the  snows,  the  trees, — these  alone 
were  the  angels  of  their  resurrection. 

Then,  having  found  her,  through  the  hushed  and 
solemn  woods  he  took  her  back  to  the  farm. 


x 


Raynham,  standing  in  the  silence  of  his  own  small 
office,  partitioned  off  from  the  larger  one,  had  been 
reading  a  letter. 

He  had  finished  it  now,  and  was  staring  out  at  his 
high  window.  Between  two  twelve-story  buildings 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street  he  could  see  the  lake, 
— gray,  speckled  with  floating  cakes  of  ice  above 
which  wheeled  the  hungry  gulls,  and  empty  of  any 
shipping.  It  was  all  winter  to  the  eye.  But  a 
string  of  crows  swung  up  from  a  mud  bank  and  flew 


286  THE  BRIDGE 

high,  with  an  air  of  purpose,  toward  the  wooded 
heights  behind  the  city;  they  were  cawing  in  a  high- 
pitched,  excited  note;  they,  long  before  the  man, 
were  conscious  of  the  year's  turn  and  obedient  to  it. 

Raynham  stared  at  the  horizon  until  it  seemed  to 
recede,  and  he  was  looking  at  Tallis  Island  over 
miles  and  miles  of  desolate  water, — not  as  he  had 
seen  it  in  the  autumn,  but  as  it  would  be  now,  the 
long  beaches  battered  with  the  floe,  the  lagoons  frozen, 
and  Morning  House  alone  at  last. 

Yet  even  there,  there  would  be  consciousness — in 
the  spears  of  pale  green  among  the  reed  roots  under 
the  ice,  in  the  packed  buds  of  the  woolly  willow — of 
that  change. 

He  read  again  from  the  letter  in  his  hand,  which 
was  from  Maclear: 

.  .  .  We  shall  never  go  back  to  the  island  any  more. 
I  've  no  wish  for  it,  nor  has  she.  Those  empty  rooms  would 
be  unendurable,  and  the  little  hulls  laid  out  to  dry.  All 
that  was  good  of  our  days  there,  we  can  keep  in  memory, 
so  that  it  '11  be  always  ours.  But  now  we  have  changed. 
And  the  place  has  not  changed  with  us.  It 's  in  the  past. 
We'll  leave  it  there. 

Once  I  was  going  to  build  a  house  for  her  on  the  island. 
Now  I  know  that  house  will  never  be  built,  anywhere. 
And  there  was  to  be  a  golden  room  in  it,  just  for  her.  A 
fool  and  his  fancies,  you  know,  are  hardly  parted.  I  'm 
going  to  have  a  golden  room  in  the  house  on  Frontenac 
Avenue.  You  said  you  would  have  a  look  at  the  wiring 


THE  SNOW  287 

before  they  laid  the  hardwood  floors.  Anyway,  I  know 
you  have  the  key,  and  go  in  and  out, — God  bless  you! — 
as  I  look  for  you  to  do  when  we  're  there.  So  if  you  see 
Smeaton's  men  inside  with  a  lot  of  yellow  stuff,  don't  chase 
them  out. 

It  was  queer, — wasn't  it? — that  the  little  room  she  had 
at  the  farm  should  have  been  a  yellow  one?  It  was  walled 
with  yellow  pine  and  strips  of  yellow-flowered  paper,  and 
there  were  yellow  curtains,  and  the  quilt  was  all  yellow 
squares.  It  was  gold  when  the  lamp  was  burning.  I  saw 
her  first,  as  she  lay  asleep,  in  that  gold  light  like  memory. 

When  I  brought  her  in  out  of  the  snow,  I  carried  her 
there.  I  stopped  with  h/er  all  night  except  when  I  went 
down  to  look  at  Sal,  who  was  taking  hardly  his  return  to 
life  after  saving  hers,  poor  lad.  She  has  taken  no  harm. 
The  boy's  hands  are  bad  and  heal  slowly.  But  he's  very 
patient. 

I  don't  know  what  I  said  or  did  n't  say  to  you  in  my 
first  letters.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  you  'd  be  anxious 
about  any  one  but  her.  I  'm  all  right,  Jack.  When  she  's 
fit,  I  'm  hungry  to  get  back  to  the  city  and  get  to  work  and 
face  the  future. 

Raynham  laid  the  page  down,  drumming  with 
his  fingers  on  the  window-sill.  Over  the  lake  even- 
ing was  coming,  and  the  gray  light  changed  to  one 
not  of  earth.  Change,  change,  everywhere,  ceaseless 
and  implacable, — the  running  of  the  sand,  the  drift- 
ing of  the  mist,  the  covering  of  the  snow, — and  all 
building;  building  the  stuff  of  the  world,  the  life  of 
the  heart,  the  soul  of  man.  Raynham  raised  the 
window,  and  into  the  warm  air  of  the  room  slid  a 


288  THE  BRIDGE 

blade  of  air  keen  as  though  he  stood  on  a  mountain. 
He  felt  himself  raised  on  a  height. 

"So  he  's  facing  it  at  last,"  he  said.  "At  last  he  's 
standing  up  to  it.  At  last  he  's  taken  it." 

He  drew  down  the  window  and  went  out  through 
the  large  office  with  its  rows  of  covered  tables  and 
hooded  typewriters,  and  so  to  the  door  of  another 
room.  He  took  out  a  key,  opened  the  door,  and  went 
in. 

It  was  Maclear's  office, — where  he  had  gone,  that 
day  of  summer,  to  think  things  out;  where  Moira  had 
been  waiting  for  him.  Perhaps,  in  the  dust  that  lay 
on  everything,  was  some  dust  of  the  white  violet  she 
had  let  fall. 

Raynham  went  to  the  closed  desk,  looked  at  that 
and  at  the  empty  chair.  He  said:  "He  '11  be  sitting 
there  again  next  week,  outwardly  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  Queer,  how  our  bodies  hide  things. 
Like  curtains.  Queer,  how  time  goes." 

There,  at  Raynham's  side  was  the  place  where 
Moira  had  stood.  There,  on  the  carpet,  was  where 
Maclear  had  lain.  The  dumb  stuff  kept  no  record, 
and  Raynham  did  not  know.  These  things  had  only 
builded  in  their  hour,  and  with  it  were  gone. 

He  went  to  a  large  locked  folder  in  a  rack,  opened 
it  with  another  key.  From  among  the  plans  it  held 
he  selected  one,  drew  it  out,  and  carried  it  to  the 
window. 


THE  SNOW  289 

It  was  a  plan  of  the  Bersimis  bridge. 

He  looked  at  it,  studied  it  in  every  detail,  then  laid 
it  back  once  more  in  its  place  and  put  all  away. 

Something  in  Maclear's  letter  had  told  him  that 
this  also  had  been  faced  at  last. 

He  pulled  out  a  drawer  in  the  desk.  All  sorts  of 
odds  and  ends  were  there  as  Maclear  had  left  them. 
Raynham,  'burrowing,  turned  out  faded  envelops, 
string,  a  cigar-box,  broken-backed  cigarettes, — an  in- 
finite accumulation  of  nothings.  Thrust  down  at 
one  side  was  what  he  had  had  in  mind. 

It  was  the  framed  photograph  of  a  tall,  ugly  young 
man.  Under  it  was  scrawled,  "Al,  from  Gordy." 

The  photograph  had  been  thrust  down  at  the  side 
of  the  drawer  with  such  violence  that  the  glass  over 
it  was  broken  and  the  metal  frame  crushed  out  of 
shape. 

With  a  very  gentle  touch,  Raynham  straightened 
the  frame.  He  spoke  to  the  pictured  face  as  if  to 
the  original. 

"He  must  have  been  regarded  as  worth  it,  Gor- 
don," he  said.  "Such  life,  such  suffering,  poured 
out  to  turn  him!  He  was  hard  to  turn.  You'd 
think  it  worth  while.  You  'd  grudge  him  nothing, 
not  even  your  life.  You  were  always  a  great  giver, 
Gordon.  So  's  she.  It  '11  be  my  job,  and  hers,  to 
help  him  to  make  it  and  keep  it  worth  while." 

He  hesitated  a  minute,  then  deliberately  set  the 


290  THE  BRIDGE 

picture  on  the  top  of  the  desk,  where  it  had  stood — 
before. 

This  also.  He  knew  that  Maclear  had  done  with 
his  forgetting;  that  he  could  forget  no  more  than  the 
earth  under  the  frost  and  snow  forgot  the  seeds  in  the 
furrows  of  her  sorrow. 

He  took  up  the  letter  again.  The  page  he  lifted 
began: 

Did  you  know  that  a  farmyard  was  such  a  pleasant  place 
to  walk  in?  I  didn't.  The  thaw  was  strong  enough  to 
make  you  believe  in  spring.  Canada- jays  and  crows  were 
quarreling  somewhere,  and  the  poultry  were  scratching 
through  the  snow  to  the  straw  beneath.  Every  icicle  had 
a  gold  drop  on  the  end  of  it,  the  cows  were  lowing,  and 
just  then  Mackerrow  swung  in  with  a  load  of  logs  from 
the  wood-lot,  the  runners  shrieking  at  the  turn,  the  whip 
cracking,  the  big  team  jetting  steam.  I  tell  you,  it  was  fine. 
The  girl  on  my  arm  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed  out. 
It 's  the  first  time  I  Ve  heard  her  laugh  like  that.  Mrs. 
Mackerrow  heard  her  in  the  kitchen,  and  Sal. 

We  've  worn  out  a  path  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  barn, 
she  and  I,  pacing  up  and  down  while  we  talk  of  the  future. 
A  thing  we  rarely  did  before.  Everything  we  have  and  are 
seems  turned  toward  the  future,  as  to  a  redemption,  and  the 
present  is  just  the  bridge  by  which  we  are  traveling  to  it. 
I  must  tell  you  one  thought  of  hers1. 

We  read  in  the  paper  an  account  of  a  sudden  flood  fol- 
lowing an  ice-jam  up  North  on  a  river.  A  party  of  miners, 
crossing  by  the  single  dangerous  ford,  were  swept  away, 
and  two  were  drowned.  The  account  gave  it  that  such 
accidents  were  common  there.  She  said,  "There  must  be 


THE  SNOW  291 

plenty  places  like  that  in  this  country  where  life  's  held 
so  light.  What  would  have  saved  those  poor  men  losing 
their  lives?" 

I  told  her,  a  bridge,  of  course.  Only  there  would  be 
nobody  to  build  one  in  such  a  place  until  the  railway 
reached  it. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "there  might  have  been  some  one  to  set 
a  bridge  there.  There  might  be  some  one.  There  might  be 
you,  Alan,  when  you  're  rich  enough." 

Just  the  germ  of  a  thought,  Jack,  but  surely  a  divine  one. 
To  save  lives  that  way  for  the  lives  I  lost?  Could  it  be 
done?  I  don't  know.  There 's  no  reason  against  it.  And 
a  thought  like  that  is  a  star  to  steer  by.  There 's  time 
enough.  And  I  could  train  Sal  to  help  me  in  it.  The  lad 
would  like  it.  Perhaps,  in  time,  I  might  train  a  lad  of 
my  own.  .  .  . 

Raynham  laid  the  page  down  gently,  as  if  some- 
thing of  Sombra,  something  of  his  friend,  lingered 
there  with  their  thought.  His  thought  was  that  he 
must  tell  Moira  that. 

He  also  looked  to  the  future  and  saw  hope. 

He  gazed  round  the  silent  office  to  see  that  all  was 
in  readiness  for  Maclear's  return.  His  face  softened 
indescribably.  He  thought:  "It'll  be  good  to  have 
him  back.  And  in  time — in  time, — we  '11  all  be 
happy  again.  Gordon  would  not  wish  it  otherwise. 
Nor  Moira.  He'll  have  hard  things  to  fight,  hard 
things  to  face,  all  the  while.  But  there  '11  be  me. 
And  there  '11  be  his  wife.  We  '11  keep  it  worth  while. 
He  shall  win  out  in  the  end." 


292  THE  BRIDGE 

He  went  out  and  shut  the  door.  He  was  satisfied 
in  patience  for  his  friend  as  for  himself. 

For  love  was  there.  And  where  there  is  love, 
there  is  an  exceeding  patience. 

Companied  with  these  things,  it  is  not  difficult  to 
await  the  times  of  God. 


"""«  ii     mi  Illll  HI/1 11)111101  Jl 


